


A Machine Without Feelings

by sareyen



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 19th Century, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Charles Xavier Needs a Hug, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles is Jane, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Lehnsherr Loves Charles Xavier, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik has Issues, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik is Mr Rochester, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous Charles Xavier, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Erik Lehnsherr/Magda, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poor Charles Xavier, Smitten Erik, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24994687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sareyen/pseuds/sareyen
Summary: A Jane Eyre AU:Small and measured but intelligent and determined, Charles Xavier is a child born into circumstances of hardship; his father died just after he was born and his mother remarried a cruel and hard man, who cast him out to boarding school when he was ten. After a difficult childhood, Charles found employment as a tutor at the grand Ironfield Hall, where he meets its master - the brooding and seemingly cold Mr Lehnsherr.Charles is drawn to the enigma that is Mr Lehnsherr, but mysterious and frightening events begin occurring in Ironfield Hall, threatening to destroy everything Charles has grown to cherish.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr & Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 64
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't speak a lick of German, so any German in this is from Google translate (i.e. it's probably wrong and instead of saying 'nice hat' it probably says 'crazy dick' or something). Many apologies for my monolingual limitations :')

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first ever Cherik fic!! I'm honestly a hoe for Jane Eyre, so this is my little ode to the wonderful book. I've drawn things from both film and the book - of course, 2011 was great and I took quite a bit from that (because Fassy, come on), but the 2006 BBC version is my darling. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and thanks for reading! :)

Charles hid behind the heavy crimson curtains in the alcove by the eastern window. It was his favourite little nook; the sun rising in the east always made it the warmest part of the grand Westchester estate in the morning, and Charles always liked the way it overlooked the gardens that were always bright against the stony backdrop of the grey stone mansion. What he liked most about the nook, though, was that it was safe. His stepbrother, Cain Marko, had not found this little corner of peace yet, allowing Charles to tuck his knees up onto the plush cushion seat of the alcove and prop a heavy book across his lap.

 _"Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens,"_ Charles murmured quietly to himself, wanting to say the foreign words out loud, but struggling to wrap his young tongue around the tough words he was trying to learn. He had almost seen ten winters now, and in the confines of the Westchester mansion - a _prison_ , he had sometimes thought – Charles wanted to drink in any form of knowledge he could. He had always been a genius, as his favourite nurse, Kitty, always told him. Charles soaked up knowledge like the Westchester grass did after a heavy rain, or how Cain’s stomach soaked up all of the sweet cakes he ate gluttonously.

This was one of Charles’s favourite books; even though he couldn’t understand all of the large words, he grasped enough from the words he did know and the pictures to decipher meaning. The sciences had always interested him, more so than Cain’s novels about pirates and sea monsters, and found a small kernel of happiness whenever he read about how plants grow and spread.  
He often looked at the twisting ivy climbing up the walls of Westchester, unruly and vibrant, alive amongst the dead stones. His mother, Sharon, called them weeds and asked their servants to cut it down when they could, but she often forgot about it all by the time the bottle had emptied.

Charles smiled to himself as he ran his fingers over the long German words, casting his eyes over the pictures of plants and pollen, of seeds and leaves. He didn’t know how much time passed, until he heard the bang of an ornate door, his eyes going wide as his entire body froze.

“Where is he?! Where in the dickens is that gibface little meater?!” Charles heard his stepbrother’s voice call out, the clack of his shoes deafening on the hard floor. Charles tried to breathe evenly and shallowly as to not make any noise, blue eyes trained on the miniscule slit between the curtains.

He saw Cain prowl past, eyes narrowed into slits in his puffy face. His thick lips were pulled back with a snarl, and his nose sniffed like he could smell Charles’s fear. Charles bit down a gasp when Cain’s eyes suddenly snapped to his alcove, his feet _clunk, clunk, clunking_ on the wood.

Charles leapt out of the alcove before Cain could find him himself, as if offering himself up as some sort of sacrifice would make Cain go easier on him today.

“Ah, there’s our Charlie-boy,” Cain sneered, the taller, older boy sauntering over with a smirk. His eyes looked Charles up and down, before focusing on the book cradled against Charles’s chest. “What is that book?” Cain demanded, jerking a fat finger against Charles’s chest and the book, the smaller boy stumbling back with the force.  
 _“Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens,”_ Charles responded meekly, cowering as Cain snorted.

“You have no business taking our books,” Cain said, as if this mansion belonged to him already. It did not. It had originally belonged to Charles’s father, Brian Xavier, but when he died it was left in the hands of his mother. If his mother had been any other woman, the estate would have been passed on to Charles. But Charles’s mother was a drunk, her mind lost in the drink more often than not; her new husband, Kurt Marko, easily coerced her into giving him everything she owned. Sometimes, Charles thought that included him.

Charles did not often incite violence nor conflict, but it had always irked him whenever Cain would claim everything that Charles’s father had carefully cultivated as his. Cain was just like his father, and even though still a child, Charles knew that they were wasting away the vast Xavier fortune on nothing but folly.

“These are not _your_ books,” Charles replied, steeling himself as he clutched de Pollens closer to his chest. “They were my father’s books. They are Xavier books, not Marko books!”

“You little-” Cain spluttered, growing bright red with fury. “Your father is dead and buried in the ground, and everything in this house belongs to my father! And as his real son, it thus belongs to _me_! Everything here is mine; these curtains are mine, those windows are mine, and that book in your hands is also _mine!_ ”

As Cain yelled, he lunged forward to wrench the book from Charles’s hands. Charles knew that the moment he grabbed it, the larger boy would smash it over Charles’s head, like he always did.  
 _‘No!’_ Charles screamed in his mind, terrified at being hurt again. Charles’s body shook as it remembered in vivid detail how it felt to be pushed to the ground by his stepbrother, how the older boy’s hands tore at his brown hair and bruised his stomach and ribs.

“Give the book here, you rat!” Cain growled, and Charles yelped when Cain snatched the book from Charles’s weak hands and smashed it over his head. Charles felt dizzy as he staggered, something wet and sticky dribbling down over his forehead, making his hair stick to his skin.

Charles blinked, hand shakily moving to his hair. When he pulled it back, his fingertips were red with blood, matching the crimson curtains behind him. Charles felt anger, white and hot, course through him unlike anything he has felt before. Charles had always been a measured and calm child, but the blow to the head sparked something in him, driving him momentarily mad. There was a screaming inside his head, one of injustice mixed in with fear, which caused Charles to move.

Charles yelled out, closing his eyes and swinging the heavy book haphazardly in an arc through the air. There was a thump and a cry of pain, but for once, it did not come from Charles.  
“What is going on here?” a voice thundered, the male timbre carrying throughout the high ceilings and ornate walls of the room. Charles felt his heart fly into his mouth as he peeled open his shut eyes, Kurt Marko stalking over to the two boys with murder set on his face.

“Father!” Cain snivelled, jumping up as he held his throbbing head, pointing towards Charles rudely. “This little cretin assaulted me!”

“Assaulted you?” Charles repeated, feeling the blood on his crown ooze a little. Kurt Marko looked heeded his son’s words, eyes whirling to Charles as his devil spawn grinned in victory, like a cat that just caught the canary.

“After all I have done for you, but marrying your mother to save your family, this is how you repay me?” Kurt Marko drawled, grabbing onto the back of Charles’s coat, hauling his tiny frame into the air.

“I did not… I didn’t…” Charles stuttered, fear seizing him, the book in his hands cluttering to the ground.

“To the Red Room with you,” Kurt Marko said, and Charles’s eyes widened and blurred, tears streaming down his face.

_No, no, no, not the Red Room. Not that room. Please, please, please, anything but the red room!_

If the Westchester mansion was a prison, the Red Room was its torture chamber. Charles had been locked in there many times since he was a boy even younger than ten, even after he did his best to not anger the Markos. It seemed like, no matter how hard he tried, they still painted him as the problem. Kurt Marko turned a blind eye to Cain’s cruelty, to the way he would capture birds in the gardens and snap their necks on the edge of the fountain. He ignored the way Cain bullied tutors and the maids, and how he was, in every way, an unnatural, demon-like child.

Maybe it was because Kurt Marko, too, was a demon.

“Step-father, Mr. Marko, sir, please, please not the Red Room,” Charles pleaded, skinny legs shaking in his light-coloured trousers. His tunic felt soaked through with cold sweat, and Charles felt like he couldn’t breathe as Kurt pushed him roughly through the heavy doors. Charles’s legs gave in to the force, and the boy was flung forwards onto the carpet. His knees thudded heavily, and his palms hurt as they braced him on the floor.

“Unnatural children need to be punished, you know this, Charles,” Kurt said, voice eerily calm, though his mouth was curled up into an amused smile. “Children like you, that were born bad, need to be taught how to behave. This was the task God gave me, and you will be grateful that someone pitied you enough to try and save your soul.”

“No! Please! I won’t- I’ll do anything- Please! Don’t leave me in here!” Charles begged on his knees, tears sliding down his reddened cheeks and coating his tongue. Kurt just responded with a cold smile, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Charles screamed and battered his little fists against the door, but it did not yield.

The Red Room was one such room in the far, almost forgotten wing of the estate that had not been refurbished by the Markos. It had all of the old furnishings, the old, gloomy wallpaper, and smelled of grief and despair. It had been the room Charles’s dear father had spent his last breath, and the draft in the fireplace and flow of air through the slits in the mouldy windows made it seem like his spirit was still here.

Though the spirit of Brian Xavier had been gentle and just in life, Charles believed that his soul was now restless as he saw what has become of his precious Westchester, and now he haunted this room. In his fury, Brian Xavier did not recognise those still walking on the mortal plane, and as night descended, he would come into the room screaming with the voices of all of the past Xaviers, a chorus of anger and hate.

Charles was a child, and though he was level-headed and rational, he was still just a child. He was terrified, and each squeal of the wind at the window, each rattle and rasp of air pushing down the ashen and dusty chimney was like a scream of a haunted spirit in Charles’s mind.

It was as if he could hear the voices of all the dead Xaviers in his head, their phantom minds overwhelming him, until he could finally take no more and collapsed onto the floor, darkness claiming him.

***

  
Charles woke to the feeling of a cool cloth brushing against his forehead and the tune of a maid’s song. Charles whimpered, feeling feverish, and the cloth was replaced by a gentle hand. Charles’s eyes opened blearily, and he turned his head stiffly to match the soft touch to a face. He felt relieved when he saw Kitty’s face smiling down at him, brown hair tied back in a tight knot.

“Master Charles, you have awakened,” Kitty’s voice spoke gently in his ear, relieved and comforting. “Here, sit up, child. You have been sleeping for a day and an hour since we found you on the ground in the Red Room. You are weak and hungry, I’d bet. Have some water, and I have some soup and bread for you.”

“Thank you, Kitty,” Charles said, ever polite, even when in the grips of sickness. The kind words of her little master made Kitty smile, patting his head affectionately as before gently holding a glass of water against his chapped lips, which were a shade paler than their usual bright berry red.

Kitty, along with the other servants of the household, adored the young Xavier, though after his mother’s remarriage, was forced to take on the surname Marko. The servants never called him that, though, and in their hearts they addressed the cherubic-faced boy as _‘Master Xavier’_. They knew their master did not like sharing the Marko name, and they shared that sentiment. They believed the Markos to be nasty and evil, and never wanted to lump their gentle Charles with the likes of them. They never openly showed this, though – they were fearful of their masters as much as they hated them.

Still, they did what they could for the young master that treated them with kindness, the only one in the family to do so. Even though he was still but a boy, he reminded the older servants of their now dearly departed Mr Brian Xavier.

Kitty nodded in encouragement as Charles nearly drained the entire glass, wiping the corner of his mouth with a towel before putting the glass onto a tray on his bedside table.

“Do you think you can eat, Master Charles?” Kitty asked, gesturing to a small bowl of vegetable soup and stiff bread. Charles did not really want to eat anything, his stomach feeling like it was knotting itself shut. Charles never had a hearty appetite on a normal day, and Kitty often chastised him in good nature, saying that his small appetite is why he is small for a boy of his age.

Charles did not want to waste Kitty’s efforts to bring him food to his rooms, though. It was always hard enough for the servants to scrounge up some extra things for Charles to eat, since the Markos forbade him to dine with them.

Charles just nodded in answer to Kitty’s question, the woman smiling happily and helping feed Charles, his body still weak with fever caused by immense fear. He ate as much as he could, finishing most of the soup but only eating a few morsels of the bread, too tough for him to stomach. Kitty was satisfied with his efforts, and after he ate she helped tuck him back into the bed, pulling the blankets over his shoulders.

“Rest now, Master Charles,” Kitty spoke softly, stroking the younger boy’s hair like she used to when he was younger. The touch helped send the boy off to sleep, though these days sleep was fitful and restless.

“Thank you, Kitty,” Charles murmured again, sleepy. “Good night.”

“Good night, Master Charles.”

***

Kurt Marko nodded to the man – Mr Shaw – as he grabbed his cloak and walking stick. The man had a menacing smile as he had peered down at Charles, inspecting him from head to toe.  
He had introduced himself as Mr Shaw, the master of Graymalkin School for Children. It was a school primarily aimed to help educate orphans or wayward children; neither of which Charles believed he was, but the prospect of going to school made his heart beat with excitement.

Charles tried to hide how elated he was when Kurt declared that he was going to be sent to school. Charles always wanted to learn, and now to be given the opportunity to be taught properly outside the confines of Westchester? Charles could only think that his nightly prayers had finally been answered; to be able to escape from the clutches of the Markos, his alcoholic mother, and the house that he hardly loved.

His step-father told him that he would leave by couch in two days, and Charles had to swallow back the plea to leave tomorrow. To just leave now. He would not miss many things in Westchester, and the things he would miss could be counted with the fingers of one hand; Kitty, his alcove, his father’s libraries, the gardens in the springtime and his bedroom. But those five things were not enough to tether him to Westchester, and he could not wait to go to school.

Two days had gone by relatively quickly; Kitty helped him pack his belongings, of which there was not much. Kurt never spent money on Charles, so he only had what he had been left before the Markos came, and only the bare minimum after that. It had not taken long for Kitty to neatly fold and press a single change of clothes into a worn and aging case, rolling up some spare socks and tucking in a small box of biscuits for the long carriage ride. She also gave him his father’s old pocket watch, securing it to Charles’s small hip.

The dawn of his leave had come, and no one but the servants came to bid him farewell. They all hugged him, some of them teary, but others happy for him, knowing that their intelligent little master was happy to be given an opportunity to learn. Kitty cried the most, though she tried to hide it; she was the last to hug Charles, holding him tightly outside the door of the carriage.  
“I will be praying for you always, Master Charles,” Kitty said through a sniffle, and Charles felt his eyes grow a little wet at the sound. “Please keep your health in mind, and if the chance is given, please write. I am sure we would all like to hear about how you have been enjoying school.”

“I will, Kitty. Farewell,” Charles promised, pressing a kiss to Kitty’s cheek, making the woman laugh, wiping at her eyes with a cloth. She helped Charles clamber into the coach, closing the door behind him. Charles waved his small hand out of the carriage all the way down the long gravel path, head poking out of the small window to watch Kitty and the staff get smaller and smaller, until the coach turned a corner and Westchester mansion disappeared from sight.

It was a long ride to Graymalkin School, one that Mr Shaw had been a little surprised at when he found out that Charles was going to make it alone. If Charles could read Kurt’s mind, he was sure he had been hoping for Charles to die on the road, whether by overturned coach or bandit attack.

Unfortunately for Kurt, but fortunately for Charles, he made it to the school in one piece, though weary from the journey. His bones were creaky with disuse, and his spine felt out of place, but he brightened when he saw the plaque outside of the school.

_Graymalkin School for Children._

_‘A fresh start’_ , Charles thought to himself giddily as he stepped out of the carriage, a man wearing a dark suit standing in wait. He had tanned skin and long, dark hair, and had a stoic expression on his face as he regarded Charles.

“Who are you?” he asked simply, and Charles opened his mouth with practised manners.

“Charles Marko,” the boy said, hoping that one day he could rid himself of the blighted Marko name. Even though he was out of the sight and touch of Kurt Marko, it was still too early for him to feel like he was free from his reach. Charles sincerely hoped that one day he could shed the name and fear of the Markos, but ‘I’m still only ten,’ Charles reminded himself. He could still grow.

“Ah, Mr Shaw informed us that you would be arriving around this time. Come, let us get you settled. I am Mr Quested, the arithmetic teacher here,” the man said, voice even but not harsh, though his face did not betray any flicker of emotion.

Charles followed the man obediently into the building; like Westchester, the school building was made of stone, but it was nowhere near as grand. The entire single-level building would have been the size of the Westchester stables, and looked decrepit. Charles had heard that Kurt had payed a small sum for his admittance into the school, and wondered where that money was going since the school looked like it had not been maintained at all.

The inside of the school was ice cold, the chill from the cold stones not mitigated by fires nor rugs. Charles shivered, the small boy prone to chilly temperatures, and pulled his coat around himself tighter.

Charles was led to an inner room where, finally, there was one fire going. Another man with a harsh face, who Mr Quested called Mr Azazel, prodded the fire roughly and ordered Charles to strip the moment he entered the room. Mr Quested told Charles, whose eyes were wide like a startled deer, that Mr Azazel was the languages teacher and that he was going to give Charles the school’s uniform.

Charles quickly changed into the scratchy, slightly too-small grey uniform, the high collar chafing under his chin. Mr Quested took Charles’s old clothes, which were simple and old, but far nicer in quality than that of the uniform, and discarded them to the side.

“Now, we will show you the class rooms. You have arrived in time for first classes,” Mr Quested said, and Charles felt the cold seep out from his body at the prospect of learning, brightening visibly. Mr Quested did not comment on the sudden spring to the boy’s step, just leading him into a large hall where many pairs of tired yet curious eyes peered back at him, all wearing a similar grey uniform. There were rows of girls sitting to Charles’s left, and boys in a similar configuration to his right.

Mr Quested introduced Charles to the other children – his classmates – and he was instructed to take a seat on the boy’s side. Charles did as he asked, plopping himself down for his first assembly.

This was where things would change, Charles believed.

He was right, but what he didn’t realise was that they didn’t necessarily change for the better.

***

School was not what Charles had pictured it to be. It was not that Charles did not learn things; he did gain knowledge in English, arithmetic, botany, languages (French and German, and Russian from Mr Azazel), geography and history, amongst other things. Charles just did not expect it to be so cold and harsh and strict. Mornings began in the dark, where Charles would wash his face with ice-cold water shared by others. Breakfast was unpalatable slop, cold and pasty in his mouth and borderline inedible. Lunch was a no better affair, the stew a sludge of fat and undercooked roots, but Charles tried his best to stomach it, because otherwise he would writhe around in his cold straw bed starving until morning broke, and he would live it all over again. Living at Graymalkin School was as hard as living in Westchester, but in a different way.

Charles had never felt so cold before, his pale skin always icy to the touch, his feet always numb. He wished that he was allowed to wear the woollen cloak Kitty packed him, but he had to wear the school’s grey uniform that was thin and short, not covering Charles’s cold wrists and ankles well at all.

The teachers were also horrible. Mr Quested was the most tolerable of them all, and taught his classes methodically but dryly. Mr Essex was very knowledgeable about the sciences, which Charles was interested in, but often took time out of his lessons to berate his students; he usually picked on students that were slow to grasp things, and though Charles was never slandered, he felt great pain for his fellow pupils that had to quietly hold in their tears as Mr Essex cursed at them. Mr Azazel was intimidating, and would snap the necks of students with hard reed when they mispronounced a word as they read foreign texts, or force them to stand with their arms up until they conjugated complex verbs incorrectly.

However, the worst of them all was Mr Shaw. Mr Shaw stepped in for classes on various occasions, and out of all of the teachers, he was the most fond of physical punishments and public ridicule. Charles had been a victim of his attentions once in the few weeks he had been at Graymalkin School. Charles had spoken up in one of his classes, offering an eloquent rebuttal to one of the points Mr Shaw had raised about a text they were studying; Mr Shaw had grown livid that someone like Charles had argued with him, but Charles had been adamant that he had not said anything that should cause offense. Mr Shaw called him a liar and unleashed the wrath of God upon him.

Charles had endured ten lashings on his wrists, his light skin easily marked with red. Mr Shaw had not finished there, and made him stand on a stool in the middle of the large hall with a chalk board with ‘Liar’ scribbled across it. Mr Shaw had denied Charles dinner that night, and Charles whimpered as he stood there with a near-empty stomach.

Students marched past him after they had their own meal, and a few cast pitying looks at him as they trudged past to the segregated bed chambers. The girls parted to the left, and the boys to the right, Charles merely watching them leave while swallowing his saliva down sadly, hands held behind his back.

Suddenly, something coarse and rough was pressed into Charles’s hands discretely, and he stroked his fingers over it. It was bread.

Charles’s eyes widened as he searched the sea of grey pupils that all brushed past him, and his heart thumped when one head turned back. It was a girl, head full of blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She had a mischievous curve to her mouth that was so unlike any one else at this school, teacher or student alike.

When Charles was finally allowed to retire to his scratchy bed that night after having sneakily eaten the contraband bread, Charles found that he slept a little better at the thought of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that he didn’t know the name of.

***

The girl, he would later find out, was called Raven. She was an orphan, and had been at the school for a year already. Raven was bright, daring, and so alive that Charles always felt lighter in her presence. He had not realised how lonely he had been until he began to spend time with Raven, though their interactions were limited since Raven was in the girl’s classes, and they only interacted during the afternoon yard time.

When they were allowed to play in the yard, Raven and Charles would always gravitate towards each other; Raven had said that the way he had argued – _debated_ , Charles emphasised – with Shaw had been the best thing she had seen the entire time she had been here. No one ever told Shaw that he was wrong, not even Mr Quested or Mr Azazel, but Charles had.

“I got whipped for that, you know,” Charles said, though his mouth held the quirk of a smile at that, the lingering pain on his wrists not as harsh when Raven laughed at him, face so bright.  
Raven had asked Charles early on in their newfound friendship if he was an orphan or a wayward child. Charles said that he was neither, and Raven had smirked, and said ‘definitely wayward, then’. Raven then told Charles that she was both an orphan and a wayward child, though she was proud of the latter. Wayward and proud, she had declared, standing on top of a bench and waving a long stick from her hands.

“Then you can just be wayward,” Charles had said after that, smiling at the slightly younger girl. The girl looked at him in confusion, and Charles beamed wider. “I will be your family, so you do not have to be an orphan. You can just be wayward and proud.”

Raven had embraced him tightly and called him brother, and for the first time, Charles felt like he had a real family. Sharon, Kurt and Cain were distant memories; Raven would be his family from now on, and he would be Charles Xavier.

School had gotten a lot better after befriending Raven; Charles clearly excelled in his classes, which earned him the favour of the teachers there. Even Mr Shaw could not deny that Charles was the most advanced pupil, and found it hard to punish him as much when he did not do anything that warranted punishment.

Instead, Mr Shaw turned his sights onto Raven, whom he knew was close to Charles. Shaw punished Raven whenever Charles frustrated him, and despite Charles’s best efforts to protect his sister, he was still only a boy. Even after being at Graymalkin School for a few years had not changed the fact that he was powerless against people like Shaw. The only way he could protect Raven was to let himself be punished by Shaw – so Charles often dropped chalkboards, or wore one part of his uniform incorrectly, giving Shaw reason to vent his frustrations upon him.

Charles’s wrists became worn with marks and scars from lashings, and he was sure that the backs of his legs painted a similar picture. But, Raven was safe from Shaw, so Charles could brave it.

  
But while Charles could protect Raven from Shaw, he could not protect her from other things. It had been two years since Charles went to Graymalkin School when typhoid fever blitzed through the meagre campus. Teachers covered their faces with linen clothes while coughing and feverish children were sequestered in a cold room full of hard cots and left to die.

By chance, or by Kitty’s prayers, the fever had left Charles untouched. Raven had not been granted the same fortune, and in the deep winter of that year, she had fallen ill and passed soon after.

  
Charles had wailed for days – weeks – after that, and had refused to leave Raven’s lifeless and ashen body even as the teachers covered her with a sheet to be buried. Charles had begged and screamed at Raven’s still body to come back or to take him with her, and he only stopped crying when his despair had robbed him of all energy and he fell into a cold, dreamless slumber.

The yard that Charles and Raven used to play in, where they had become brother and sister, was soon dug up to bury the many dead children of Graymalkin school. The teachers organised a mass funeral for all of the lost students, and their grey uniforms were switched to black for one week. Charles cried as they sang a dark funeral song, rain pelting down. As the rain fell, he remembered Raven’s sunlight blonde hair and ocean blue eyes, how she smiled and laughed and was the very meaning of life.

Charles buried a little bit of himself with Raven that day; Charles did not laugh as much as before, even though Raven said that his smile was nice and made him seem like a different person. He did not act out against Shaw, nor did he complain about the slop they called porridge or the rancid fat in the stew. Charles simply did what he came to school to do; learn, learn and learn.

It was eight years after he came to Graymalkin School for Children that Charles left it behind. Mr Shaw had long since left the school; it had been discovered that he had been hoarding the money meant for the school for his own means and was subsequently cast out, a new committee at the school stepping in to oversee things. Life was not so bleak once Shaw was ousted, and that was what allowed Charles to stay and teach at Graymalkin for two years after graduating from pupil to tutor.

Charles was a popular teacher; he was kind, understanding, patient and gentle. He was also the best teacher in terms of actual instruction, knowledgeable in every aspect, but particularly in the sciences. He would make classes interesting by allowing students to go out into the yard rather than sit on rickety wooden chairs inside a stone classroom, and his lessons were the only times the pupils felt free to express their opinions. The students loved him, and when he told them that he was leaving, there were many wet eyes and sobs amongst the children.

They loved their Mr Xavier – because that was the name he had taken, once again – and Graymalkin wouldn’t be the same without him there.

Charles’s heart was warmed, and he believed that he had truly found his calling in teaching. But there was some niggling feeling inside of his soul that told him that there was more out there, outside of Westchester, and outside of Graymalkin. Graymalkin had shaped him to become the man of eighteen that he was today, but he knew there was something missing.

Charles said goodbye to Raven before he left Graymalkin, cleaning off the rock used as a headstone with a pail of water, and placing some freshly plucked flowers bundled in a string of lace beside it. Charles smiled as he nestled a little wooden board with etched letters in front of it, thumb brushing over its corners.

_Raven Xavier_   
_Beloved friend and sister_   
_Forever wayward and proud_


	2. Chapter 2

Charles looked at the letter in his hand, wax long-broken and words read over a thousand times on the carriage ride to his new place of employment. Charles had not expected to receive a request for his services as a tutor so quickly after he had advertised, but he had not needed to think twice before responding and packing his bags before the courier could even tuck the letter into his pocket.

“Mrs Moira MacTaggert,” Charles spoke to himself, a habit he had not truly gotten over from his childhood. Reading aloud soothed him, and he had only kept up the habit when he would read fiction stories to Raven as they lazed around in the sunlight in the Graymalkin yard.

Charles cleared his throat as his body swayed with a bump in the road, his knee jostling against the side of the carriage as he looked down at the letter in his hands again.

_‘If C.X., who advertised in the -shire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned; and if he is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency; a situation can be offered him where there is but one pupil, a young boy, under ten years of age; and, where the salary is 30 pounds per annum. C.X. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction…’_

“Mrs MacTaggert,” Charles said again, folding the worn parchment again and tucking it securely into the breast of his Graymalkin-issued frock coat. His father’s old pocket watch was nestled into his side, and he took it out. The time matched the dwindling sunlight, and Charles prayed that the journey would not be much longer.

Charles was nervous, though it was difficult to tell if it truly was nerves or mere excitement. Charles was confident in his abilities as a tutor, and had easily sent Mrs MacTaggert – whom he assumed was the lady of the house he was now employed by – references and achievements. Charles excelled in all subjects he was expected to teach, though the sciences were his most beloved. Charles was well-versed in various humanities, English, mathematics, sciences and even languages – mainly French and German.

“No need to be fearful, Charles,” the 18-year-old reprimanded himself, smoothing the front of his trousers with the clammy palms of his hands. “You are more than equipped to manage.”

Charles was no longer the boy who feared the Red Room, though his gentle and measured manner may make him seem timid. He was not timid, just calm and well-mannered, and his time at Graymalkin had taught him to stand up for himself while maintaining cordial relations. Passive, maybe, but not timid.

Charles must have dozed off somewhere towards the end of the journey, and was startled awake by two loud raps on the door of the carriage.

“Ironfield Hall just ahead, sir,” the footman said gruffly, opening the carriage while another man hurled Charles’s meagre luggage from the roof of the carriage.

“Thank you, and safe travels,” Charles said, tipping his head as the carriage driver clicked his tongue, the horses trotting off down the road, wheels lurching into muddy divots in the dirt.

Charles looked towards the direction the footman had pointed at when he mentioned Ironfield Hall, and Charles’s mouth opened a little in surprise at the sheer expanse of it. It was no Westchester, but it was still impressive; tall stone battlements spiralled up into the sky, cutting an imposing figure against the slitted moon. The entire periphery was jagged with thorny trees, obscuring most of the estate in sharp shadows. The residence, as a whole, seemed to loom over the countryside dauntingly, and Charles swallowed deeply before making his way towards it.

The wind whipped through overlying leaves as Charles trudged his way through the canopy of trees leading up to the estate, the night cold and awash with a light drizzle. By the time he tentatively beat his fists on a small wooden door, the shoulders of his coat were damp and his floppy brown hair was beginning to plaster to his pale forehead.

A fit young man with dirty blonde hair opened the door, and blinked at him a few times. It did not seem like this house received many visitors, or at least, not ones like Charles.

“Um, good evening,” Charles said, pushing some of his hair from his face, the man looking at him silently. “I am Charles Xavier. I have come for the tutor position. I received a letter from Mrs MacTaggert, I have it here if you would like to witness it…”

Charles began to fumble around inside his coat with rain-soaked fingers, until the man’s eyes cleared with recognition.

“Oh! Of course. Mrs MacTaggert did tell us that a new tutor was coming,” the man said, opening the door wider and letting Charles step through. “I am Alexander Summers, the butler. You can simply call me Alex, though. Most of the servants do. It’s only Mr Lehnsherr that calls me by my surname.”

“Mr Lehnsherr?” Charles asked, frowning at the unfamiliar name. German origin, he thought to himself as Mr Summers – Alex – gestured for Charles to give him his drenched coat.

“Yes, our master, Mr Lehnsherr,” Alex said, a small smile gracing his lips, giving Charles an amused look at his incomprehension.

“Oh, master? I was under the impression that Mrs MacTaggert was the lady of the house…” Charles said, Alex laughing and shaking his blonde head as he lead Charles through a set of doors to a well-lit and warm room. The room was nicely furnished, with freshly upholstered chairs and an intricately crafted table set near the fire. The cold stone floor was covered by a large red patterned rug, and there were flowers set about on most surfaces, neatly clipped and in tasteful vases.

“Oh, Lord, no,” Alex said, hanging his jacket up on a rack to dry. “Mr Lehnsherr is definitely the master of this house. Moira – Mrs MacTaggert - will tell you more. She's the housekeeper. I will go and fetch a towel for you to try yourself with, you’re wet as a dog.” As he spoke, a door opened on the far side of the room.

A pretty woman walked in, brown hair hidden under a white cap and slender body covered with a black dress trimmed with soft lace. She was older than Charles, likely around thirty, but her beauty seemed to defy her age.

“Mr Charles Xavier?” the woman inquired, Charles nodding in response. “How do you do! I am Moira MacTaggert, but please, do just call me Moira. I’m sure that you have had a tiring journey – I am knowledgeable about where Graymalkin School is, and it is a fair journey.” A kind smile broke out on the woman’s face as Alex returned from wherever he had disappeared to, taking the towel from him and passing it to Charles. She smelled of fresh flowers, and Charles could hazard a guess that she was in charge of the decorations of his room.

Moira gestured to one of the seats set near the fire, and Charles settled himself down in one of them. It was then that he noticed a tea set already sitting there, steam fizzling out from the pot’s nozzle. Moira poured two cups of tea, handing one to Charles with a ‘here, for you to warm up, Mr Xavier.’

“Please, call me Charles, Moira,” Charles said, offering the woman a smile, which she returned. It could have been due to the hot cup of tea in his hands, or the warm glow of the orange-red fire, but Charles felt at ease, the ice thawing from his bones. Moira and Alex had both been welcoming and kind, and that sort of treatment was not familiar to Charles. He did not find it uncomfortable, however – quite the opposite, in fact.

“Charles, then,” Moira echoed, taking a sip of her tea. “I am truly glad that you are here, Charles. As you can tell, this is a large house – it can get a little dreary, being surrounded by the same old faces every day.”

Alex let out a huff from across the room, Moira laughing and waving her hand in the air, Charles managing a chuckle himself.

“Truly though, Charles. It is always pleasant when new faces come to Ironfield, and I am glad that you are here. Of course, Mr Eisenhardt, the boy under your tutelage, has brought much new life to this place, but one cannot really converse with him in a manner stimulating for someone my age,” Moira said, laughing before taking another sip of her tea. “You must have had much stimulating conversation with other teachers at Graymalkin though, Charles. I would think that there would be great discussion amongst well-educated individuals.”

Charles smiled a little wryly, beginning to drink his tea – sweet and warming, a richer flavour than the tea-coloured water that he had gotten used to at Graymalkin.

“There were many well-educated individuals, but, ah, conversation was not stimulating in the slightest,” Charles said, blue eyes casting down to the fire. “Well, I don’t mean to sound bitter. I just mean to say that I am also glad to be here, and hope to fit in well. I… have already felt more welcome, more than my eight whole years at Graymalkin, in your parlour for the past fifteen minutes.”  
Moira smiled at Charles’s words, flattered and elated.

“I am glad. You seem lovely, Charles, and very measured.” Moira’s mouth curled up in a slightly sly smile. “Being calm will be a good trait when teaching Peter.”

“Peter? That is Master Eisenhardt’s name, I gather?”

“Indeed,” Moira said, nodding and looking off to the side, imagining something fondly. “Peter is, well, very energetic. He has not had a very, ah, strict upbringing, and can be quite unbridled at times. Hence the need for a tutor.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” Charles said earnestly, before he and Moira slipped into easy conversation. The entire pot of tea was emptied by the time he and Moira got up from the comfort of their chairs to show Charles to his chambers, where the woman left him to rest before a brand new morning.

And a brand new life.

***

Moira had maybe been downplaying Peter’s ‘energetic nature’ just a touch. Peter was, well, wild – he had difficulty paying attention for anything more than five minutes at a time, and Charles could always see his leg bobbing up and down under the table as he tried to explain how multiplication works on a large chalk board.

This wasn’t Charles’s first experience with a child whose brain and body seemed to think faster than anyone could keep up with, so Charles did not fret too much, at least, not after the first few days. He had been at Ironfield Hall for almost three months now, and he had figured out how to keep Peter focused – Charles staggered book learning with more practical tasks, focusing on _doing_ rather than lecturing. Peter reminded Charles a little of Raven, who was always more ‘do’ than ‘read’, unlike Charles himself.

Charles had grown very fond of Peter, his light hair always wind-mussed and messy, despite Moira chasing after him with a brush to try and tame his mane. Charles had been thrown into hysterics the first time he saw Moira chasing after the boy, whose short legs were surprisingly agile, and the boy had ducked under her skirts and out the other side before hiding behind Charles to get away from Moira’s brush.

 _“Herr Charles! Herr Charles! Frau Moira ist gefährlich!”_ Peter cried out, Charles laughing loudly as Moira gave him a pleading, exasperated look, unable to understand Peter’s native German tongue.

Charles hadn’t learnt much about Peter’s background, the boy unaware of the details apart from the fact that he was from ‘Deutschland’ coupled with a few vague, infantile memories of his mother, who had been ‘the prettiest woman in Deutschland’ who could sing melodic songs. Moira didn’t know much about Peter’s past, either – apparently the master of the house, Mr Lehnsherr, didn’t tell her anything and just dumped the child at the residence before setting off on another voyage to the Americas.

Charles hadn’t been told much about his actual employer, the mysterious enigma, Mr Erik Lehnsherr. In the whole time Charles had been living at Ironfield Hall as Peter’s tutor, the faceless man had yet to grace the estate with his presence. Moira said that this was not unusual – Mr Lehnsherr only returned to Ironfield a few times a year, and rarely stayed for more than a fortnight on each occasion.

Charles was not bothered by not meeting his employer – from what he had heard, Mr Lehnsherr was an aloof sort of man, and could be changeable and difficult to get along with. The staff didn’t have much to say about him, just that he wasn’t a bad master overall since he ensure that they all lived comfortably, but that he was distant and always abroad. Charles was also content with the company he had found in his new friends and his little pupil.

 _“Peter, erinnerst du dich, was ich gesagt habe?”_ Charles said, raising his brow as Peter rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Englisch only,” Peter said, Charles giving him another look, though a smile played at his red lips. “Sorry. English.”

“Very good,” Charles said, ruffling the boy’s hair, earning the tutor a toothy grin. Moira eventually caught Peter, setting him on her lap to smooth out his messy hair as Charles checked his pocket watch. It was about time for tea, and Charles announced so, Peter letting out a whoop at the prospect of taking a break from classes and being able to eat. Alex, who had been watching everything unfurl in amusement, grabbed Peter by the shoulders and lead him out to grab some food.

Moira nudged Charles’s elbow after the other boys had left, and they headed to the staff’s dining room like they usually did; Charles had grown close to Moira over the past three months, as well as other members of the staff. Other than Moira, Charles considered Alex (the head butler), his brother Scott (the coachman), Angel (a maid) and Lorna (the German nurse that accompanied Peter on his journey to England) good friends.

There was one member of the staff that Charles had yet to befriend – Peter had called her Anna-Marie, and Charles noted that she often kept to herself and stayed in the mostly unused west wing. Charles had asked Moira about why she stayed there, where it was a bit windy, isolated and cold, but Moira had just said that she does the laundry there, and prefers to be solitary most of the time. Moira had seemed unbothered by it, so Charles tried to be too – but there was something about it that caused a little voice to whisper unsettling things in the back of his head.

***

“Oh, dickens – where is Alex?” Moira tutted, peering outside at the downcast weather. It had just stopped raining, but Moira was reluctant to trudge to town to post letters in the weather, in case it did begin to rain again. It was a bit of a trip for a woman to make herself, especially in inclement weather, even if Moira was a strong and dependable lady.

“I can take the letters to the post, Moira – I was going to visit the book store any how,” Charles offered, Moira giving him a grateful look as she passed him a bundle of letters bound with twine.

“You are a blessing, Charles,” Moira said, squeezing his arm gently, before setting herself to polishing the silver. Charles quickly pulled on his thicker coat, though the Graymalkin School wage meant that it wasn’t extremely warm. Charles tugged on some threadbare gloves as well, bare around his fingertips, before heading out.

The roads outside Ironfield Hall were dreary, but only when the fog descended from the rolling hills in the distance. On days where the sunshine wasn’t obscured by fog, Charles thought that the scenery was quite beautiful.

However, this day was not one of those rare sunny days; the moment Charles stepped out it had started to drizzle again, though it had stopped when he reached Ironfield gate. It was foggy, and Charles had difficulty seeing more than two arm widths in front of him, making the usually pleasant walk to the closest town more tedious than usual.

Charles stuck close to the sides of the road, grimacing as his feet sunk into wet mud. His shoes were not the best in quality either, and did not keep all of the cold muck out from his socked feet. Maybe Anna-Marie didn’t want to talk to him because she was the one who had to deal with starching the stains out of all of his muddied socks.

Charles was deep in thought about how he could begin to feel the squelch of mud between his toes when there was a sudden bark from in front of him. A black shadow darted out from the fog, like a hellhound or a ghost, and Charles let out a startled cry, almost falling bum-down into the mud. He managed to keep his balance though, and turned to follow the mass of black that had sped past him.

It was a dog that looked a little mangy, but that was likely because it was caked in mud and rain. The dog barked again, staring at Charles who blinked at it in confusion – the dog seemed to be barking at him, like it was warning him about something.

Then, Charles heard a loud, startled neigh from right behind him, the sound too close to be safe. Charles whirled around, almost slipping in the mud again, his eyes wide as he saw a hulking great beast rear up on its front legs, a mass of black and brown that swallowed up Charles’s vision.

“Argh!” a voice emphatically grunted out as the horse fell to the ground with a crash, the dog from before whimpering as the horse flailed on the road. Charles’s heart thudded rapidly, startled as he saw a man by the back of the fallen horse.

“Up! Up you cursed beast! Up!” the voice growled, gruff and low, somehow deafening over the panicked bleating of the horse.

Charles rushed forward to help as the horse pulled itself up, skittering off towards the trees, hooves slapping the ground with agitation. The horse’s rider seemed to notice Charles approaching, and immediately thrust a hand out to stave his approach.

“Stand back,” the man spat, eyes narrowed with anger and wariness, causing Charles to stall in his movements. The man in front of Charles was tall, and clad in well-tailored riding gear, his breeches and long boots streaked with a little dirt. His coat and shirt hid away a broad chest and narrow waist, with pale skin sloping up from the collar to reveal an angular face. Sharp jaw, and neatly trimmed brown hair, his scruff a little ginger even through the fog. His eyes were icy, a cool grey-blue shade, and Charles couldn’t help but notice that this man – though seemingly stand-offish and rude – was quite handsome.

The man glared at him as Charles approached again, swallowing thickly.

“Are you injured, Sir? May I be of some help?” Charles asked as he saw the man limp to a nearby fallen tree log, collapsing onto it with another grunt. The man ignored his question, continuing to glare at him, thin lips set into a tight frown. He didn’t stop glaring at Charles as he abruptly bent down to pick up his fallen hat, gripping it with large, strong hands.

“Where did you come from?” the man demanded, Charles frowning a bit at his harsh countenance. The man was lacking in manners, though the fine clothes that he wore and his impressive steed made Charles think that the man was of some kind of well-off upbringing.

 _‘He is dressed like a gentleman, but he in no way acts like one,’_ Charles thought to himself. _‘He is handsome, but beauty is of no consequence. He could have the face of an angel, but if his soul and heart is as black as coal, it means nothing.’_

Charles, unlike the man, did not forget his manners and spoke calmly and collectedly, though he did frown a little as he watched the man wince as he attempted to stand from the log, only flopping back down again with a curse.

“Just below, at Ironfield Hall,” Charles said, the man’s eyes narrowing. “I am the tutor.” The man regarded him for a moment, but didn’t say anything more; the silence was disconcerting, Charles jumping a little as the jet black horse stamped its feet again. Charles felt the need to speak, much like he always had an impulse to read texts aloud.

“I am on my way to post some letters. Can I fetch someone to help?” Charles offered, the man now exhaling through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a noise of derision.

“The tutor,” the man repeated, Charles frowning. The man looked up at him then, icy eyes calculating. His head tilted to the side slightly, before shifting his hat into one hand, looking at Charles with an expectant gaze. “You may help me yourself. Get hold of his bridle and lead him to me.” The man jerked his hat towards the black beast, which was still snorting in agitation, kicking up mud onto the road.

Charles looked at the man, who just raised a brow, challenging, and Charles grit his teeth.

This man, this rude, demanding and _unfortunately handsome_ man was beginning to get on Charles’s nerves, and Charles held his patience in high esteem. Still, the man did seem to be injured, and Charles always tried to help people in need as much as he could, so he shot the man a cool look before turning on his heel, trudging towards the horse.

“Hello,” Charles said, the horse’s head whipping towards him, and Charles flinched. _Don’t be frightened, Charles._ “Please be calm, my friend. I am not here to harm you.” _I merely want to help your terribly rude owner continue on his journey, and hopefully never see his grumpy but handsome face again._

The horse did not listen, and Charles, for a moment, wished that he had the ability to control minds. Instead, Charles just tried to creep towards the horse in a non-intimidating manner – which was not hard, considering Charles looked as harmless as a fly – but the horse had already been spooked earlier and was not happy to have Charles so close to him. Charles bit back a scream as the horse attempted to head-butt him, the tutor stumbling backwards.

Charles heard a sigh from behind him, and the rustling of fabric.

“Ugh. It will be easier to bring me to the horse. Come here,” the rude man grumbled, rolling his eyes at Charles’s apparent failure to do a simple task.

“You are terribly demanding, I hope that you are aware of that,” Charles said flatly, the man looking shocked for a brief, flickering moment, before his face was schooled back into mild distaste.

“Did you want me to demand something of you politely, then?” the man asked, brow quirking up again, before putting on an overly syrupy voice, sarcastic and mocking. “I must beg you to please come here, Mr Tutor.”

Charles bit back another biting comment at the man’s attitude, just nodding stiffly and walking back over to the man. The man stretched out a long arm, Charles slinging it over his shoulder; the man was quite a bit taller than Charles, and towered over him even as he leaned into Charles’s side. Charles staggered with the weight of the man, his body heat evident even through their many layers. Charles wrapped his own arm around the man’s waist to steady him, pretending that he did not notice how narrow the man’s waist was around his arms.

Charles cursed inside his head as he all but dragged the man to his horse, the beast calmer in response to its master. Charles was relieved when the man grabbed onto the horse’s reins, hoisting himself back onto its back with a grimace of pain, before jamming his feet back into the stirrups.

The man fixed his hat properly on his head, peering down at Charles with a complex expression. Charles stared back at him, unwavering, and the man’s mouth seemed to twitch a little before turning his eyes back to the road.

“Make haste with your letters,” the man said, the horse beginning to trot forwards. He spared Charles another lingering look as the horse stepped past him, something dancing in his grey eyes. “Who knows what might lurk in these dark woods.”

With that, the man clicked his tongue, roughly calling out ‘Magneto’, the mangy-looking dog from earlier barking and following his master and his horse, leaving Charles on the roadside, perplexed and still.

***

The moment Charles returned to Ironfield Hall, Moira had rushed towards him frantically. Before Charles could ask her what was wrong, the woman grabbed onto his arm, babbling about Mr Lehnsherr suddenly returning, and that he had been involved in some sort of accident on the road, putting him in a horrible mood.

“He’s requested to speak with you,” Moira said, sounding almost apologetic. Alex had followed them, patting Charles on the back and passing on his condolences, making Charles frown.

“You two are making it sound like I’m about to be slaughtered,” Charles said, attempting to make his voice light, Moira and Alex sharing a glance. “... _Am_ I about to be slaughtered?”

“I’ve told you before, Charles,” Moira sighed, taking Charles’s rain-dampened coat from him while Alex handed him a fresh linen towel to roughly dry himself off with. “Our master, though he is fair and looks after us well, is not… the most agreeable.”

“Is that your delicate way of saying that he’s a right bastard?” Charles joked, Alex choking out a laugh while Moira just rolled her eyes. “I only speak in jest, Moira. He surely can’t be that bad, can he?”

 _‘He surely can’t be as bad as Mr Shaw, or Cain and Kurt Marko,’_ Charles thought to himself, the faces of the man that tormented his childhood floating up in his mind, and Charles quickly cast them out.

“His moods are just changeable, and he is not fond of conversation,” Moira said, crinkling her nose. “And because of his injury, he has been stuck in his armchair for the past half hour; he does not usually like being so idle, so cooped up. He is absolutely cantankerous at the moment, and in a terrible humour. Usually when he is in one of his moods, we just leave him alone.”

“Why does he wish to see me, then?” Charles asked, Alex shrugging.

“I have been here long enough to know not to speculate about Mr Lehnsherr’s intentions. I truly doubt that anyone could ever understand him – it is not surprising that there is no Mrs Lehnsherr,” Alex said, Moira coughing.

“Yes, well, I think that is enough gossip for this evening. It is most likely that Mr Lehnsherr just wishes to formally meet his newest employee. Mr Lehnsherr is rich, but even he would probably like to know where he is putting an extra 30 pounds a year,” Moira said, before looking Charles up and down, pursing her lips.

Charles flinched at her direct and appraising gaze, looking down at his threadbare suit. Charles had never been too concerned with appearances, not having the money nor the time to remain fixated on such superfluous things. Charles knew that he did not have a terrible face, though his nose was maybe a little too big and his hair was a little overgrown, but he was small and not particularly striking in the masculine sense. Charles valued beauty of the mind and heart over beauty of the flesh, at any rate.

 _‘Not like that man with the horse earlier today,’_ Charles thought to himself, before groaning mentally and pushing the image of the rude stranger from his mind. It wasn’t as if he would see him again, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to, since he had known the man for as little as five minutes and already thought him disagreeable. Agreeable on the eyes, perhaps, but not agreeable in temper.

Charles did not delve any deeper into that, ignoring the pang of unnatural attraction he had in response to the man.

_That is wrong, wrong, wrong. Thinking of a man in that way…_

Charles was brought back to the present when Moira clicked her tongue as she finished surveying Charles’s outfit.

“You must change before you see Mr Lehnsherr. I always dress for the evening when Mr Lehnsherr is here,” Moira said, and it was then that Charles noticed that her usual plain black dress had been changed for one of deep midnight blue; still simple and tasteful, but a bit more elegant than her usual attire.

“This is all I have, though,” Charles said, frowning. “Well, I have another set of shirts, and a different neck tie, but they are basically the same.”

Charles spoke the truth; he only had two sets of clothes, alternating them when the other was being laundered. They were not good suits, either, and one of them had been mended one too many times, with a slightly noticeable patch of mismatched material at the elbow. Charles had no money to buy himself a new suit, however, and continued to use the ones he had been given at Graymalkin school. They functioned well enough.

“No other coats?” Moira asked, sounding pained. Charles shook his head, giving her a meek smile, the woman’s eyes dropping. “Alex, you must have a spare coat lying about somewhere – anything would be better than this damp thing Charles has on now.”

“I’m not sure my clothes would be a good fit,” Alex said, not meaning to put Charles down, but highlighting their height difference. “Scott may have something more suitable, though the fit won’t be perfect there, either.”

“I think we’ll just have to manage with that,” Moira said, Alex nodding and rushing to his brother’s chambers to rummage for a coat that would fit Charles. “Charles, go to your rooms and dry off. And maybe change into your fresh under shirt. When you’re ready, come down to the drawing room.”

“Very well,” Charles said, doing as Moira asked, since she knew the ways of the house and the temper of their master better than he did. Charles peeled out of his damp clothes, filling a small basin with some water to wash his face slightly, before drying himself off with another clean towel. Alex soon came to his chambers with a coat after Charles had put on his new shirt and tied up a dark tie around his neck.

Scott’s coat was a little long on Charles, but tight around his torso and shoulders. Charles, though small, was not completely skin and bones – in the three months since he had come to Ironfield, Moira had plied him with more food than he believed he had ever eaten in his entire time at Graymalkin. It was unfortunately too late for him to climb in height, but he had filled out a little more, though he did notice that his stomach was developing the slight paunch of a man well-fed. Moira had only said that his more rounded cheeks became him, and Charles had kissed her on the hand playfully, the widowed woman rolling her eyes.

Charles stood in front of his mirror, smoothing down the coat that did not belong to him, pushing his hair this way and that, before puffing out a breath to head down to the drawing room.  
Charles was quiet as he entered the room dimly lit with candles, most of the light being drawn from the fireplace. There were two chairs situated in front of it, one was empty, while the other had its sloping backrest facing Charles.

Moira was standing in the corner of the room, glancing up from where she was making cups of tea, her head nodding towards the chair facing away from Charles. As Charles approached, he began to see a long, strong leg encased in dark pants propped up on a little stool. Before he could approach further to make out the man’s face – of the elusive _Mr Lehnsherr’s_ face – something barrelled into his stomach.

 _“Herr Charles!”_ the tutor heard moments before the little human collided into Charles. Charles let out a little laugh at Peter, who hugged him around the middle, smiling up at him with gapped teeth, mouth moving at a rapid pace. _“Herr Lehnsherr hat mir ein Geschenk gebracht!”_

“He brought you a present, did he?” Charles echoed, Peter suddenly remembering that he had to try and speak English around his tutor, cheeks pinking adorably. “And what did you say to him in return?”

“I said thank you for the, uh… present, Mr Lehnsherr,” Peter said, pointing to a ribboned large box. Charles leaned over to peer inside it, seeing an array of colourful toys; a _bilboquet_ , a phankistiscope (or _Stroboscopische Scheiben_ , as Peter emphatically said), marbles and some other knickknacks. Charles smiled at Peter’s enthusiasm over gifts, letting him enjoy them.

Charles had never received gifts before – his mother never remembered his birthday, or was too drunk to know which day of the week it was in the first place. Kurt Marko never wanted to waste unnecessary money on Charles either, and Cain – well, Cain was Cain. The closest he got to presents were little bags of cookies from Kitty, who asked the house’s cook to bake him a ridiculously sweet pudding every year.

While Charles did not temper Peter’s exuberance, Mr Lehnsherr did.

“Stop, let him sit,” a gruff voice called out, and Charles felt something bolt him to his spot at the timbre of that voice. _It can’t be. That voice..._. Peter immediately untangled himself from his tutor, returning to sit on the floor with his box of toys beside Mr Lehnsherr’s armrest. A rough and calloused hand appeared from behind the obscured chair, gesturing to the empty one beside it.

Charles’s mouth felt dry, like he had bitten into stale bread without any water on hand to help wash it down. He gingerly stepped towards the empty chair, and as he approached, he noticed the mangy dog from earlier. Charles cursed to himself.

He met the icy gaze of the man from the road, dark hair a coppery sheen that almost seemed red now in the firelight. The harsh planes of his handsome face were made to seem more severe in the shadows cast by the fire, and his mouth was pulled back in something that looked like it was attempting to be a smile, but appeared to be more like a sinister sneer.

Out of the fog, Charles could make out more of his features, including a little scar over his upper lip, and the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes. His brow had a few lines etched into them, denoting his age – compared to Charles, Mr Lehnsherr was much older, but he doubted the man was more than twice his age. _'Thirty-five, at the most,'_ Charles thought to himself silently.

Mr Lehnsherr reclined heavily in his chair, spread out and imposing. His long limbs seemed to eat up the space in front of the fire, fillings Charles’s gaze with strong muscles and masculine angles. Charles’s eyes met his employer’s, the man staring him down with an indecipherable look in his eye, one that challenged Charles to look away.

Charles did not, and Mr Lehnsherr’s thin lips seemed to pull back into a wider grin, showing a startling amount of white teeth. Charles immediately recalled images of sharks from an old book he read about fauna of the sea at the sight of that smile, but did not recoil, merely sinking into his own seat and folding his hands over his lap.

Charles and Mr Lehnsherr just sat there staring at each other for a few long moments, and Moira looked between the two of them curiously as she brought over a tray with tea. She wondered, fantastically, if they were having some sort of mental conversation, until Mr Lehnsherr spoke again, voice abrupt. Charles expected him to mention something about the events earlier, but instead he addressed something else.

“I’ve examined Peter, and I’ve found that you’ve taken great pains with him,” Mr Lehnsherr said, barely sparing a glance at the boy beside him, who was too busy playing with his new toys to listen to a conversation between adults. Mr Lehnsherr seemed to snort, turning his eyes away from the boy and back to Charles, head tilting to the side. Charles fought the urge to squirm under his intense gaze, focusing his energy into staring back.

“He’s not bright, he has no talents, and he has the focus of a toddler. And yet, in the short time that you have been here, he’s improved,” Mr Lehnsherr continued when Charles did not say anything.

“Thank you, Mr Lehnsherr,” Charles said, only tearing his eyes away from the older man’s to look at Peter, his mouth curling fondly when he saw the boy tug on Moira’s skirt to show her a particularly pretty marble. Moira handed her master and Charles their tea, Mr Lehnsherr not bothering to say thank you, while Charles murmured the sentiment softly.

“But, I have to disagree with you,” Charles said, after taking a sip of his tea, a flash of surprise passing Mr Lehnsherr’s naturally stern brow, before he had that odd smile on his face again. Moira, who had been setting the tea pot down on the table beside the chairs, whipped her head towards Charles, shooting him a cautious look.

“You disagree with me?” Mr Lehnsherr mused, his words rough but not sounding as harsh as Charles would have expected him to be, from what Alex and Moira had told him before, and so unlike the man that had been so disagreeable on the roadside. Considering that both of those men were the same as the one sitting opposite him now, Charles could not for the life of him envision them in Mr Lehnsherr. Mr Lehnsherr’s smile was unique, and Charles understood how people could find it disconcerting, but Charles did not feel anything dangerous or threatening about it. Charles called it a sixth sense, but he could not feel any animosity from the man, despite his stoic exterior.

“Yes, I must disagree with you, Sir,” Charles said, a small smile creeping onto his face as he regarded the other man. “I do not agree in your assessment that Peter is not bright, nor in your idea that he is not talented. I think he is very bright, and rather precocious. In fact, he picks things up very quickly, more quickly that other students I have tutored. I believe that he just hasn’t been taught in a way that draws out the best in him.”

Erik’s grin widened again, finally meeting his eyes, which crinkled in the corners. Charles barely heard Moira gasp at the sight, too focused on the master, who seemed to be regarding Charles with the same undivided attention. Even the cup of tea in Mr Lehnsherr’s large hands was seemingly forgotten as he stared at Charles, like he was trying to unravel him. Charles shivered.

“But you do not disagree with the fact that he has the focus of an infant?” Mr Lehnsherr spoke, Charles letting out a short laugh, glancing at Peter from the corner of his eye, the boy still distracted.

“I suppose we can agree on one thing, even if I am stubborn to disagree with everything else,” Charles conceded, and it was Mr Lehnsherr’s turn to laugh, the sound startling Moira, who looked bug-eyed at the two men sitting in front of the fire.

“So you’ve been a resident here three months?” Mr Lehnsherr asked, shifting in his chair to sit up straighter, leaning forwards towards Charles slightly, as if he deemed the man to be worthy of more attention. Charles found himself drifting forwards as well, his fingers tapping on the rim of his tea cup.

“Yes Sir, just about,” Charles said, Mr Lehnsherr nodding.

“And from whence do you hail? What’s your tale of woe?” the older man continued, genuinely curious, even if his voice didn’t fluctuate far from its usual tone.

“Tale of woe?” Charles asked, brown eyebrows pinching. “I have no such tale.”

Mr Lehnsherr just raised his eyebrow, in that way he did when he urged Charles to say more. Charles let out an inaudible huff, shrugging his shoulders minutely.

“I was raised in a place called Westchester, a house even finer than this,” Charles said, Mr Lehnsherr’s mouth twitching with amusement at Charles’s less-than-subtle dig. “From there, I spent the better part of my childhood at the Graymalkin School for Children, where I received my education. I taught there for two years, before Moir- Mrs MacTaggert, responded to my search for new employment. So, hence, I have no tale of woe.”

“Parents?” Mr Lehnsherr probed further, now simply casting his untouched cup of tea to the table, its presence dull compared to his odd interest in his conversation with Charles. For someone that Moira and Alex called unsociable and not talkative, Mr Lehnsherr was awfully curious.

“My father died when I was an infant,” Charles supplied, taking a sip of his tea. “My mother remarried.”

“And why are you not with them?” Mr Lehnsherr asked, Charles huffing, louder this time.

“Because my step-father cast me out when I was ten,” Charles said, Mr Lehnsherr nodding, neither pitiful not mocking, just absorbing the information pensively.

“Why?”

“Because,” Charles said, smiling a little dryly, “I was smarter and prettier than him, so he disliked me. At least, that is what I tell myself. If you asked him, he would just say that I was bothersome. We would both agree that he disliked me, however.”

Mr Lehnsherr barked out another laugh at that, and Moira seemed like she was about to catch a fit of chest pains.

“It was great luck that Mr Xavier was able to come here, he is really-” Moira started to speak as she saw that terrifying shark-like grin directed at Charles, who was like a helpless little tuna about to be devoured for speaking so out of turn. Her attempt to ‘save’ Charles from the shark was shot down quickly, the master’s hand flying up, the smile dropping from his face as he turned with a cool gaze to the housekeeper.

“Don’t trouble yourself to give him a character, I will judge it for myself,” Mr Lehnsherr said, Moira’s mouth snapping shut with a click. Mr Lehnsherr then turned back to Charles, the slight curve to his mouth returning. Charles couldn’t help but smile, his heart skipping a beat.

“As long as my character is judged fairly, Sir,” Charles said, almost impishly. Mr Lehnsherr just grinned, and Charles realised that Moira and Alex got one thing about their master right – he, even if usually unsociable and prone to foul moods, was a fair man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this chapter is a little suggestive (tame in my opinion), and not quite dubcon but some people might think it is? It's kind of a dream, so... think of that what you will. The part starts from "Charles lay in his bed at Ironfield hall, and the night was quite" to "Charles suddenly sprung up, his hands clamouring" :)

After that first night, Charles did not see Mr Lehnsherr a lot for the next few days; he caught glimpses of the imposing man every now and then when they passed each other in the halls, but they didn’t utter anything more than brief ‘hellos’ or ‘good days’ when they passed.

Charles was not bothered by it, at least, that was what he told himself. Charles did not think himself fanciful, not in the way that Cain enjoyed stories about made-up monsters and magic. However, Charles had thought that there was something between him and Mr Lehnsherr, something pulling them together that was greater than just a wage of 30 pounds a year.

But maybe Charles had been a bit fanciful – they were an employer and employee, and nothing more than that. Brief ‘hellos’ and ‘good days’ were adequate for what they were.

So, it came as a surprise to Charles, when Moira came knocking on the door to his chambers one evening after dinner, almost looking nervous as she told him ‘Mr Lehnsherr requests your company in the drawing room’.

Moira hadn’t asked Charles to change his clothes this time, already resigned to the fact that Charles simply did not have any more clothes.

Charles soon found himself hastily bounding down the stairs to the drawing room, his heart thumping in anticipation when he eyed the glow of firelight from under the door. It was eerie the way Mr Lehnsherr called out his name the moment the metal hinge of the door squeaked when Charles laid his hand upon it, his head turning from where he sat on the same arm chair as the other night.

This time, Moira wasn’t in the room, and neither was Peter. Apart from the man in the chair, there was only Magneto, his dog. Magneto, now less mangy after Moira had given him a wash, yipped happily when Charles entered the room from where he lay by his master’s feet.

When Charles walked over to the seated master of the house, he was surprised when the older man held out a glass of wine, jerking his head towards it to urge Charles to take it. He did, and nestled himself in the chair opposite Mr Lehnsherr, who sipped at his own wine, coolly regarding Charles.

“Were you expecting a present?” Mr Lehnsherr suddenly asked, and Charles blinked at him, confused at the abrupt and incongruous question.

“Sir?” Charles asked quizzically, Mr Lehnsherr smirking.

“A present. Peter, that little beast, asked me the other day if I brought _‘Herr Charles’_ a present back from my travels. So, tell me, does _‘Herr Charles’_ expect a present?” Mr Lehnsherr explained, and Charles swallowed at the way his employer’s tongue wrapped around the sounds of his name. It was then that Charles truly realised that the man had the slight lilt of an accent, a little German but mixed with other things. It was not surprising, considering the man spent more of his time abroad than in England.

“Of course not,” Charles said, almost snorting at the notion of his employer buying him a present in a gaudy box like the one he brought back for Peter. Mr Lehnsherr laughed at Charles’s response, sipping his wine as Charles did the same.

“Not fond of presents, _Herr Charles_?” Mr Lehnsherr said, the more he repeated Peter’s name for his tutor making Charles think that the man was beginning to insult him, though the smile on his face was more teasing than outright mocking.

“I wouldn’t know,” Charles said, looking down at the rug beneath his feet, before tilting his gaze back up, a small grin on his naturally red lips. “But I do believe that they are generally thought to be pleasant things… _Herr Lehnsherr_.”

Mr Lehnsherr almost, _almost_ , choked on his wine at that, eyes looking Charles over with amusement, the pale blue irises seeming warmer than they usually were. Charles felt a little giddy as a warm flush overcame him at the expression on Mr Lehnsherr’s face, but he put that down to the wine – Charles hadn’t had much experience with alcohol, never having a chance to drink it at Graymalkin. He did not mind the slightly acidic taste, but he always equated alcohol with his mother, and that left a bitter flavour in his mouth.

“ _Herr Lehnsherr,_ ” the older man repeated, grimacing. “Don’t call me that, you sound like the boy, and you can probably tell, I am not too fond of children.”

 _‘Then why take one in at all, if you dislike them?’_ Charles pondered silently, smiling at Mr Lehnsherr’s words, not finding them sincerely harsh. Even though Mr Lehnsherr did not show it like most people, he did hold some sort of affection and care for Peter – he was concerned enough about Peter’s education to employ Charles, and to keep tabs on how Peter’s education was progressing. And even if he complained, he had gone out of his way to bring Peter gifts back from his travels. It was more than any of Charles’s parents ever did for him.

“Then I’d ask you to stop calling me _Herr Charles_ too,” Charles responded in turn, Mr Lehnsherr’s brow going up.

“Just Charles, then,” Mr Lehnsherr said, his voice uncharacteristically soft, and Charles sucked in a deep breath, heart lurching in his ribcage.

“If that pleases you,” Charles pushed out, eyes dropping from Mr Lehnsherr’s and down to his half-finished cup of wine. “I am your paid subordinate, you can call me what you wish.”

“Paid subordinate?” Mr Lehnsherr echoed, almost incredulous. “You’ve hardly been speaking to me as such, and I’ve already forgotten your salary. But on that ground, will you consent to letting me call you Charles, so that we may speak as equals?”

Charles looked back up at Mr Lehnsherr now, mouth opened in surprise. Mr Lehnsherr seemed to put him in that state quite a lot – surprised, on uneven footing, but not at all caring about how he stumbled. Charles felt like Mr Lehnsherr had opened up some sort of trap door beneath his feet, and he wasn’t sure if he was scared or exhilarated by the free fall.

“We are not equals if you are allowed to call me Charles, while I call you Herr Lehnsherr,” Charles said, chest fluttering with bravery. Mr Lehnsherr did not seem offended, but his mouth twitched before he threw back the remainder of the amber liquid in his glass, swallowing. Charles watched the bob of his throat that peeked out from his high-collared shirt and dark red, almost magenta, neck tie.

Mr Lehnsherr put his emptied glass down on the table beside them, leaning forwards.

“Well, Charles,” Mr Lehnsherr said, smiling around Charles’s name. “As equals, you can call me Erik.”

“If you so wish, _Erik_ ,” Charles said, the man letting out a ‘humph’ with satisfaction, leaning back in his chair. The two of them shared a smile, before falling into silence as the fire flickered and waned.

After a few minutes of silence, Erik spoke again, reclining in his chair in comfort.

“Speak to me, Charles,” Erik said, and it was Charles’s turn to quirk up an eyebrow. Erik just grinned with lots of teeth, tilting head invitingly. “Distract me from the mire of my thoughts.”

“You are awfully demanding, as always, Erik,” Charles said in direct reference to what he said along the roadside, rolling his eyes as Erik snickered, shrugging.

“Force of habit. The others that live here…” Erik said, waving his hand with a shrug, before looking into Charles’s blue eyes. “Well, none of them are quite like you.” There was something in Erik’s gaze that made Charles jerk in his chair, his freckled cheeks growing warm.

“What do you want to talk about?” Charles said quickly, Erik smirking before looking around the room. His eyes fell onto a barely touched chess set he had brought back from France some time ago, but never had the opportunity to use. There had been no one for him to play with during his short stays at Ironfield; Moira was too afraid of him, Alex and Scott were not bright enough, and there was no way he would play with Angel or Anna-Marie.

“Do you play, Charles?” Erik asked, gesturing to the chess set, gaudy and so very French. Charles nodded, seeming to brighten a bit, and Erik smiled. “Then let us play.”

Erik began to stand to fetch the chess set, but Charles stopped him, murmuring something about ‘resting his injured leg’. Erik responded by reminding Charles that he caused the injury by spooking his horse, Charles just sending him a withering look as he bounded over on his shorter legs to grab the chess set. While Charles moved some furniture around, bringing the chairs closer and the table tighter between them, Erik threw another log onto the waning fire.

By the time Erik had finished stoking the fire, Charles had almost finished setting up the pieces. Charles also poured Erik another glass of wine, which made the older man smirk.

“Don’t think you can best me without plying me with drink, Charles?” Erik said goadingly, the younger man snorting while pushing his white pawn out to begin the game. Before Erik could reach for his wine, Charles took it from the table and placed it on the floor out of Erik’s reach.

“I am confident in my abilities, whether you are inebriated or the contrary,” Charles replied, leaning back in his chair.

Erik just hummed in response, and for most of the game, they did not talk much. Erik sometimes asked Charles about his life in Graymalkin, and he supplied concise answers. Erik inquired about his family again, and Charles niftily shied away from that conversation, but did talk a little about how he had someone he considered a sister, once, but also how that person was taken from him prematurely.

Charles was delighted to find that Erik was a mean chess player, and they were very evenly matched throughout the entire game. When Charles made a spectacular move, he would observe Erik’s flicker of awed surprise that would pass over his face, before his brow would furrow and his hand would come to his chin, deep in thought about his next move.

Charles stared at Erik now, as the older man ran a finger over his lip as he hovered his other hand over a knight. Charles’s gaze followed the movement of Erik’s finger, slightly wrinkled and calloused with wear, wondering what sensations those fingertips were feeling as they rubbed against Erik’s bottom lip.

Charles was startled when Erik’s eyes suddenly lifted off the chessboard into his, burning brighter than the fire beside them. Erik moved his knight without glancing down, the thunk of the piece on the ornate wooden board deafening.

“Your gaze is very direct, Charles,” Erik said, and Charles flushed at being caught staring. “Do you think me handsome?”

 _‘Oh, Christ,’_ Charles muttered silently, eyes dropping down to the chessboard, pretending to think about his next move but unable to gather his thoughts.

“You are handsome, for a man,” Charles muttered, haphazardly moving his bishop.

“For a man,” Erik echoed, moving his queen now, before lacing his fingers together and leaning on the table in front of them. “Then what about for a woman? What would you consider handsome, for a woman, Charles?”

Charles flushed pink, and he peeked up at Erik expecting him to tease him about his virginal response, only to find him staring at Charles with a serious expression etched onto his face, waiting for Charles to respond. Charles floundered, mouth moving up and down, before he stammered something out.

“Well, Moira – I mean, Mrs MacTaggert, is a very handsome woman,” Charles said, Erik’s eyes narrowing slightly. “I, uh, would believe that a woman with her appearance would generally be thought very… handsome.”

“She is a little aged for you though, isn’t she, Charles?” Erik said, now smiling a little when the tips of Charles’s ears turned bright red. “She’s a widower approaching 35. You are what, 18?”

Charles's mind unhelpfully reminded him that Erik, too, was around 35.

“Age is of no consequence to me,” Charles said quickly, Erik’s expression growing serious once again, his eyes hot as they trekked over Charles’s face. “As… as is appearance. I value what’s in here,” Charles continued, pointing with two fingers to his temple to signify the mind. “And in here.” Charles then let his hand lower, pressing his palm to his chest, over his rapidly beating heart.

  
Erik did not respond, and just stared at Charles silently, as if thinking to himself. Charles longed for the ability to take a peek into Erik’s mind, one that he was beginning to find quite fascinating, but-

 _‘Unnatural child,’_ Charles heard in his mind, Kurt Marko’s voice echoing around the Red Room.

Erik then moved his chess piece, quietly saying ‘check’. Charles made his own move, the conversation dwindling, before Charles was able to check Erik in return. Charles found his footing again when Erik let out a huff and a begrudging ‘good move’, the younger man leaning back in his chair gloatingly, about to win the game.

“Should you not let me win, Charles? We are equals, but I am still your employer,” Erik said, teasing tone again evident in his voice.

“You haven’t paid me to let you win yet, Erik,” Charles countered, the older man grinning again with too many teeth. “And besides, I would never submit myself to letting someone win. Even for a salary.”

Erik regarded Charles again, his shark-like grin drawing more tender, before tipping over his king in defeat.

“Checkmate,” Erik said on behalf of Charles, reaching his hand across the board. “I shake hands with you, for your skill.”

Charles smiled back, reaching out to clasp Erik’s hand, whose returning grip was firm and hot. Their hands slotted together tightly, and Charles thought that, for a second, Erik’s thumb drew a circle on the back of his palm.

But as quickly as the touch came, Erik soon drew back, retiring for the evening. When Charles lay in bed that night, he held his palm in the air, before closing it into a tight fist and pressing it against his mouth, willing himself to calm his unsteady heart.

_Unnatural child._

***

Charles laughed aloud as Peter darted towards the shuttlecock, as nimble as always. He hit the shuttlecock back towards Charles, who was nowhere as light on his feet as the young boy, the feathered ball dropping to the grass. Moira and Alex clapped for Peter as he ran around the small patch of grass in a victory lap, before he was hoisted up by Alex for some afternoon tea on the porch overlooking the gardens they had been playing on.

Moira followed on after the two of them, calling out to Peter about how he needed to retie his laces, as Charles bent down to pick up the discarded shuttlecock. As he did so, he felt eyes searing into his back, and he turned to find Erik looking at him from atop a set of stone stairs.

It had been about a week since their first night playing chess in the drawing room, and since then it had become a nightly occurrence. Moira no longer had to tell Charles that Erik had requested his presence in the brightly-lit room, Charles always heading there after supper, and Erik always waiting there with the chess set unpacked and their chairs bunched together tightly.

Charles couldn’t help the way his heart clenched whenever Erik drew near, even when he knew it was wrong. Charles had always known that something was off about him; at Graymalkin, he had never fancied any of the female pupils sitting across the room unlike all of the other boys. Some of the boys had teased him about liking Raven, but the thought disgusted him; it was not entirely due to the fact that he considered Raven a sister, but also because the thought of liking a girl in that manner made him feel unsettled.

Charles had been young during his days at Graymalkin, so he did not let himself consternate on the idea too much. There was hardly time to think about anything like that at all, with classes starting from dawn and Charles being too drained from the long day to think about much before his head hit the scratchy straw pillow.

But now, in Ironfield Hall where Charles felt safe, where he was able to enjoy moments of leisure and with someone like Erik loitering the halls, Charles had begun thinking about _that_ again.

Charles knew that he was attracted to Erik, even if he never admitted it aloud. Deep down, he knew that what he felt for the older man went beyond that of the feelings of an employee to a kind employer. What he felt went even further than the bonds of friendship and of brotherhood.

Charles knew it was wrong, but he could not help it, not when Erik looked at him with such heat in his eyes. He couldn’t see Erik in a platonic light, not when Erik called them equals and called his name, _‘Charles’_ , in that rich timbre, like he was saying much more than just his name. Charles couldn’t help the swell of desire that rose up from his gut when Erik would grow hot under the heat radiating from the fire, shrugging off his coat and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing strong and smooth forearms.

Charles couldn’t help it, but he could push it down, far enough so that it didn’t spill everywhere.

Erik now descended the garden stairs devoid of a coat. His checked waistcoat was a mixed brown shade, and the glint of a gold pocket watch shone at his waist. It was a warm day outside, so Erik had rolled up his sleeves as he helped some of the gardeners load, unlike Charles who was perpetually cold.

“God help me,” Charles muttered to himself as Erik approached him, his locks appearing lighter in the sun. His hair was usually neatly combed to the side, but today it was slightly dishevelled from yard work, giving the man a more rugged look. Erik had a small smile on his face as he stopped in front of Charles, towering over his shorter stature and blocking out the sun.

“The little beast was running circles around you,” Erik said, chuckling a little as he flicked his finger at the shuttlecock in Charles’s hands.

“He is an active young boy, I am but a scholar,” Charles defended himself, feigning offence by blowing some of his unruly, floppy hair from his face. Erik laughed at that, the sound carrying through the garden, Moira looking at them with an expression that could only be classified as disbelief.

Peter, seeing his favourite tutor and his favourite person standing together, yelled out _“Herr Lehnsherr, Herr Charles!”_ whilst waving at the two of them from his seat, the sweet preserve slathered on his scones dripping onto his vest. Moira scolded him as she hurriedly wiped the mess away, the boy not seeming to care as he licked his jam-coated fingers, before waving at the two men again.

“He’s the son of a German opera singer, Magda Eisenhardt,” Erik explained without any prompting from Charles as the two of them looked at the rambunctious boy. Erik turned away from him first, looking back at Charles, who felt his gaze hot on his profile.

“She was a beauty,” Erik continued, still staring at Charles. “And she professed to love me, with great ardour. I loved her, too.”

Charles’s gaze snapped to meet Erik’s then, his heart twinging with a moment of pain, chest tight. Erik seemed to like Charles’s response, his thin lips curving upwards before he turned, pressing a hand to the small of Charles’s back, nudging him back towards the stairs. Charles stumbled beside him, hyperaware of the heat blossoming from Erik’s hand on his back, even through all of the layers of fabric that he wore.

“I was a fool, really,” Erik said as they climbed the steps slowly, Charles fiddling with the shuttlecock still in his hands. Erik noticed his preoccupation with the little item, plucking it from his fingers as they reached the top of the stairs and placing it on a flat plane of one of the stone banisters.

“A fool?” Charles asked, leaning against the stone of the step barriers, crossing his arms over his chest, almost like the action would protect his heart as Erik edged closer to stand beside him. Charles could feel Erik’s arm brush against his. To others, they looked like two men having a chat while standing side-by-side; to Charles, he was all too aware of their close proximity, and how Erik’s breath sometimes drifted through his hair when he turned to talk to him.

“Yes, a fool,” Erik said, smiling wryly. “I showered her with silks and jewels, because I loved her.”

“You were a fool for falling in love?” Charles asked, frowning. Something about his expression, or the confusion in his smooth voice was amusing to Erik, and he let out a short laugh.

“You have never felt jealousy before, have you, Charles?” Erik asked, voice dropping lowly, and Charles swallowed nervously. Charles was still young, compared to Erik. When Charles was born, Erik would have been around 17 years of age, only slightly younger than how old Charles was now. Some men would have been married by that age, while Charles was still sucking on his mother’s teat. Charles did not know of these things, about how it felt to love.

When Charles did not answer, Erik let out a sigh, smiling to himself.

“Of course you haven’t. You’ve never fallen in love,” Erik continued, Charles growing still beside him. “You are lucky, Charles. You are young, and you have never felt love. But in turn, you have never been hurt by it.”

“And you have?” Charles asked, glancing up at Erik, before looking back down again. Charles listened as he kept his eyes trained on Peter, Alex and Moira, who were talking inaudibly down below.

“Magda and I, it ended when I caught her with a… handsome, Russian lover,” Erik said, bitterness seeping into his tone as he spoke of his ex-lover, before jerking his head towards Peter, who had now taken to running around the yard while Moira yelled that he was going to put his stomach into fits after eating so much and exerting himself too quickly after.

“I sent her money to support the little beast, which she swore was mine. In your eye, do you think that we share any features?” Erik said, Charles looking at the boy’s pale hair. On instinct, Charles would have said no based on the hair alone, but sometimes he thought he did see a few glimmers of Erik’s striking nose or high cheekbones in the young boy, so it was hard to tell.

“Should it matter?” Charles spoke, Erik turning to face him fully now, resting one hand on the banister behind Charles’s back. Erik remained silent, his curved brow signalling Charles to keep going, to speak his mind. Charles cleared his throat and continued.

“Whether he is of your blood or not, you treat him as if he is your own. You care for him, even if you call him a ‘little beast’, and you provide him a safe and loving home, leaving him wanting for nothing. He thinks of you like you are his father, and whether or not those features on his face are yours or from… from a Russian or a Frenchman or an Englishman, it does not matter. Love…” Charles said, chest heaving a little, his fists clenching tightly. “Love is more than blood.”

Like how Charles and Raven loved each other, and were siblings even if they did not share the same blood. Charles knew that Peter loved Erik, and probably even Charles too. Charles believed that Erik was capable of loving the boy, even if he did not care to show it.

“So love conquers even the vast chasms of blood,” Erik said as a breeze blew through the trees behind them. Some leaves were rustled from their branches, and one landed on the crown of Charles’s head. Erik reached out, fingers lingering a little too long between strands of Charles’s rich brown hair, before eventually flicking the leaf from his head. “But what of romantic love?”

“Romantic love?”

“Yes, romantic love. You seem to believe that familial love conquers all barriers. Does that naïve notion of yours extend to romantic love?” Erik asked, eyes searching Charles’s, trying to draw out his deepest thoughts and desires, the ones that Charles kept clamped down with the self-control he had been trying to build from his infancy.

Charles couldn’t seem to form an answer, Erik eventually realising that Charles could not give him one and taking a step back. Erik grabbed the shuttlecock from the atop the banister, pressing it back into Charles’s hands, his fingers brushing across the eighteen-year-old’s palm.

“Think about it, Charles,” Erik said, before turning to head back to the mansion. “An inexperienced boy like you, I suppose it is understandable for you to be so naïve.”

***

Charles lay in his bed at Ironfield Hall, and the night was quiet. Too quiet. It was almost surreal how quiet it was, the only sound being Charles’s breath as he stared up at the ceiling. The four posters at the corners of his bed cast the shadow of a cross against the wall, the moonlight silvery and waxen.

Charles felt restless, and he turned to his side, back against the door he kept locked at night. His sheets felt thin for some reason this night, and Charles shivered, curling his arms into himself to try and trap his heat.

He kept measured breaths as he tried to sleep, but a sound from behind him made his shut eyes fly open. Charles sucked in a breath, as the lock to his door clicked open – how was that possible? It was locked at Moira was the only one with a key. Moira would not visit his rooms in the middle of the night, not when the moon was up so high.

With some phantom-like power, the lock gave way, the door opening with an ominous creek. Charles stilled in his bed, clutching the blankets tighter over his bare shoulders.

_Bare shoulders?_

Charles gasped as he peered down at himself in the dark; it was not only his shoulders that were bare, his under shirt missing entirely. Charles was completely bare apart from the dark hair trailing down from his lower stomach to his manhood. Something was wrong. Charles never went to bed nude, and his body seemed lethargic, like it was not quite his own.

The young man almost cried out when he heard footsteps approaching him. For some reason, Charles could not move; the window in his room was open, white curtains billowing out with a gust of cold wind. The footsteps edged closer, and Charles clamped a hand over his mouth when he felt the bed dip behind him, the ghost of a breath brushing over his turned cheek.

 _“Charles,”_ the voice called, and the eighteen-year-old let out a startled squeak at the familiar voice.

“Erik?” Charles breathed, wanting to turn to see the man, but his body not complying. Charles shook as hands, rough with callouses and age like they had been when they brushed Charles’s hand on the garden steps, pressed against Charles’s pale shoulder.

Erik’s hand was hot as it trailed down his body, pushing the thin blankets from his body and exposing him to the chill, but for once, Charles was not cold. No, his body was like a furnace, fire thrumming under his skin that still became speckled with goosebumps under Erik’s touch.

Charles felt Erik’s warm breath hit the back of his neck, the hairs there standing erect. Charles let out an unfamiliar sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, when Erik pressed his mouth against the skin there, his hand sliding down to cup Charles’s hip.

“Dear God,” Charles gasped out, Erik’s hands caressing his thigh as his mouth moved down to the slope of his shoulder. “We can’t do this. Erik, this is wrong. We can’t-”

Suddenly, Erik’s hands stopped, and Charles suddenly felt cold.

“Is that your answer then, Charles?” his voice asked, devoid of the warm touch that usually tinged it when he spoke to Charles, no longer curved with the slope of a hidden smile.

“What?”

“So you do not think that love conquers all, in the end,” Erik said, ignoring Charles. The weight on his bed lifted, and Charles’s static body was suddenly mobile, as if the lead ties that anchored his arms and legs had been released. Charles’s body twisted around to look at Erik, but he only found that there was no one there. Charles’s heart rabbited in his chest.

“Erik!” Charles cried out, sitting up in bed just as-

Charles suddenly sprung up, his hands clamouring at his shoulders and chest, feeling fabric there. His blue eyes were wide open, frantically searching the room; the four-poster bed was the same, but the shadow the posts cast was not a cross, but an alternative criss-crossed pattern. His window was not open, and dark green curtains hung still and heavy against the obscured glass. His door was still closed, and Charles was sure that it was locked.

Most of all, Charles was clothed like he usually was, the fabric of his night shirt damp under his trembling finger tips.

“Oh God,” Charles breathed out, his breath shaky, chest heaving. Charles closed his eyes tightly, feeling them beginning to dampen, as he tried to still his erratic breaths.

Charles could still feel the phantom touch of the Erik from his dream, the feeling of calloused fingers too vivid, the searing heat of Erik’s breath on his neck making Charles feel sick. Charles pushed the blankets off him, drawing his knees to his chest before hugging them to him, clawing at his thighs as if he were slapping away the feeling of Erik’s fingers gripping the meat there.

_Unnatural child._

“God help me, please,” Charles shuddered out, looking up to the ceiling and beyond.

Charles knew he would not be able to sleep any more that night, and pulled himself out of his bed. He pulled on his trousers to keep his legs warm, and tugged the blanket off his bed to wrap around his shoulders. He lit a candle on the small wooden desk by the window, rubbing at his eyes before opening the book he was currently reading, flicking out the red silken book mark part way through the smooth pages.

Charles’s eyes strained under the light of the single candle, and he tried to focus on the words that seemed to swirl into one another. The dark ink blurred and pooled, mixing and forming images of hands on thighs and lips on necks, Charles whimpering as he slammed the tome shut.

He was about to snuff out the candle, when suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps outside his room. Following the thump of what sounded like bare feet against wood was a guttural, throaty and almost animalistic laugh. It was unbridled, and full of something that made Charles jump.

The laughter echoed down the hall, and Charles stared at the locked door to his chambers with bated breath. The sounds soon stopped, and Charles felt like his heart had too.

Gripping the candle holder in his hand tightly, knuckles white, Charles unlatched his door and peeked outside. The hallway was empty, and Charles, for a second, thought that maybe he was delirious. On account of his already heart-stopping dream and the lack of sleep, Charles knew his nerves were frayed.

But he could still hear that laugh in his head, clear as day.

Charles tentatively stepped out of his room, closing his door behind him. The noise sounded like it drifted off towards the right of the hall, and Charles cautiously stepped there, hand drifting across the carved wooden walls as he followed the source of the eerie noise.

Charles turned the corner and heard the sound of skittish feet padding against the floor, and then the sound of a door creaking. He followed the noise, eyes darting left and right, as if expecting a beast of the night to spring out from the recess of the shadows, but the hallway was still.

Charles let out a relieved sigh when nothing was found, and was about to turn back when his eye caught a slight glow from a partially opened door. Charles held his candle to him, wondering if someone was still awake at this time; it was unlikely, since it was sometime just past two in the morning, and no one would be awake at this hour.

A voice in Charles’s head told him to go there, to the door with the flickering light. As he neared, Charles began to smell the scent of smoke and burning wood, and his bare feet moved faster and faster, pushing the door open.

Charles gasped in shock, almost dropping his candle as he took in the sight before him; flames climbed up the posters of a grand bed, more intricately crafted than Charles’s, and fitted with dark green curtains that were being devoured by fire. Dark smoke clung to the ceilings, and heat lashed out at Charles’s skin, the air thin.

Charles’s eyes burned and throat scratched as he saw a figure lying prone in the centre of the fire – Erik. Charles cursed, hastily putting his candle on Erik’s desk that had yet to be touched by flames, rushing towards the unconscious man without a second thought.

Charles didn’t notice how the flames threatened to burn his skin black and red, and just yelled out Erik’s name over and over as he shook his shoulders, the man barely stirring.

“Erik! Erik! Wake up!” Charles cried out frantically, letting out a startled noise as one of the curtains fell away from its banister, flames bursting across the ground. Charles shook Erik’s shoulders again, the man groaning. “Erik! Please, wake up!”

Erik’s eyes opened, a little dazed, and he looked confused when his eyes focused enough to recognise Charles. Then, Erik noticed the panicked look on his face, and the flames that danced above his head, and his pale eyes widened before his toned body leapt up.

Erik swore as he tore down the remaining curtains, using his blankets to try and snuff out the flames. Charles rushed to Erik’s wash station, throwing basins of water at the flames, the water sizzling and evaporating into puffs of steam.

When all the water was spent, Erik barked at Charles to grab the other blankets, Charles tripping over his own feet in his haste to pull down the curtains on his side, yelping as fire lapped at his wrists. Charles helped Erik stomp and pat the blankets down, until the flames were silenced and killed.

Erik, in what seemed like fury, stomped a strong leg down onto the already extinguished curtains a few more times, venting his anger. Once he was done, he turned to Charles, gripping the younger man’s biceps and shaking him roughly.

“Charles, are you injured?” Erik asked, voice frantic as his eyes squinted in their newfound darkness, looking up and down at Charles. Erik pat down Charles’s arms, torso and face for any injuries, and when he moved to pat at Charles’s clothed thighs, the younger man jumped away.

“I am fine,” Charles assured Erik hastily, looking at their charred surroundings, before looking back at Erik. “You… Are you okay? Erik, you were in those flames far longer than I.”

“I- yes. Yes, I’m alright,” Erik said, swearing again as he ran a hand through his messy hair. Under the moonlight, Erik’s face was cut with anger, before he steeled his expression and walked past Charles.

“Did you see what happened?” Erik asked the young tutor, beginning to pace back and forth, stepping over charred fabric and splintered wood. Charles swallowed deeply, voice scratchy.

“I did not so much as see anything, but a noise had roused me from my sleep,” Charles said quietly, casting an apprehensive look at Erik.

“What noise?”

“There was someone at my door,” Charles said, pushing back the feeling of Erik’s dreamscape footsteps, the magical unlocking of his door without hands. “It sounded like there was someone… laughing. I followed the noise, and… well.” Charles looked at the carnage around them, Erik’s face growing stormy.

The tutor watched his employer as he grabbed a heavy cloak that had been draped over the chair tucked under the desk, before stepping back over to Charles. There was still anger scrawled over Erik’s face, but his hands were gentle as they pulled the coat over his shoulders, drawing it in under his chin. It was then that Charles realised he was shivering.

“Stay here, and don’t say a word,” Erik ordered, Charles too frazzled to do much else but nod silently. Erik hesitated for a moment, before drawing his thumb across Charles’s cheek, the moment so tender that Charles felt like he would faint. “Stay here,” Erik said again, as if he thought Charles would leave – or could leave – in that moment. Charles just nodded again, and Erik quickly pulled on a pair of pants and took Charles’s candle from the desk, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Charles collapsed into a chair, the smell of burnt wood thick around his hunched body. The clock on the wall ticked on, and Charles cast his hand over the cheek Erik had touched moments before. He could still feel the lingering touches, reality mixing with dream, heightened by the smell of Erik embedded into the cloak around his shoulders.

Charles was wallowing in the fractured mess that were his budding feelings for Erik, when the man he was so tormented over returned. His face was grave, but his body purposeful as he walked over to Charles, who stood on ceremony. Erik began to approach Charles, but his step faltered when Charles flinched upon his approach. Erik’s face twisted slightly, but he schooled it into submission quickly, the change in expression gone before Charles could even exhale.

“Say nothing about this,” Erik said, voice a low rumble. “You are not like the others here, you do not speak callously. I’ll account for the state of affairs, so say nothing.”

“This is not _‘nothing’_ though, Erik,” Charles said, voice more biting than he intended it to be, his nerves jumping to his throat. “I know I heard something, _someone_. And you could have… you could have…” Charles pictured what would have happened if he had not been awake, and if he had not come when he did. He imagined Erik’s body, this handsome, Adonis-like form in front of him withered and charred, his Germanic features burned away until he was unrecognisable.

It was like Charles had pushed the image into Erik’s mind too, the older man thinking about the same thing, and his expression softened, voice quietening to match the silence of the night. Here, in this room, it was just Charles and Erik, the silence only punctuated with their breaths.

Erik then stepped towards Charles, slowly, as if not to startle him.

“Charles,” Erik breathed, standing in front of the young man so they were almost chest to chest. Charles had to crane his neck to meet Erik’s eyes, though every fibre in his being was screaming ‘flee, flee, flee’. However, Charles was riveted to the spot, pinned down by the weight of Erik’s gaze and drawn into the man’s orbit.

“Fire is a horrible death. You saved my life,” Erik said, reaching his hand up to touch Charles’s cheek again, the boy flinching. Erik’s hand chased after Charles’s face, cradling it in his palm, causing Charles to shudder. “You saved my life, Charles. Don’t shy away from me as if we were strangers.”

“What am I to do, then?” Charles breathed out, swaying on his feet. There was another question hidden there, one Charles was not brave enough to ask aloud.

Erik’s thumb rubbed slow, careful circles on Charles’s cheek as he sighed, head drawing nearer to Charles, like there was a string tied between them that was growing shorter and shorter with every sharp inhalation.

“I knew that you would do me good in some way, that you were different,” Erik whispered, Charles’s eyes fluttering shut as Erik’s other hand drew upwards to trap the other side of his face. Charles’s hands came to fist the fabric of the front of Erik’s shirt, unsure about whether they should pull the man closer or shove him away.

“Erik…”

“Charles, we are not strangers, so don’t push me away,” Erik said, and Charles could feel his breath against his lips, and he wanted so badly to give in, to just tilt his head that last little bit to feel Erik’s lips on his lips.

_Unnatural child._

Just as Charles felt a scant brush of pressure against his mouth, he pushed at Erik’s chest, stepping back. Erik’s pupils were black, and they darkened further when Charles pulled his cloak from his body, pressing it into Erik’s now empty hands.

“No, we are not strangers, my friend,” Charles said hurriedly, giving the master a shaky, forced smile. “I am tired and shall retire. Good night, Erik.”

With that, Charles brushed past the master of Ironfield Hall, who turned to gaze at him as he disappeared. Charles ran back to his room and closed his door with a heavy clunk, locking it behind him. Charles shook as he leaned against it, slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, face buried against his knees.

“Oh, God.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Charles is a wee bit homophobic, but that was probably very natural for that time period - his thoughts in no way reflects my personal views, but I assume that would be obvious anyway!

Charles did not see Erik the morning after the incident with the fire, but he hadn’t truly expected to. Things were left at a strange point last night, but not at an impasse. Charles had clearly pushed Erik back, and Charles would not put it past the other man to expand the chasm Charles had created between them.

Charles had not slept any more that night, and spent the rest of the morning curled up in his bed with the echo of the deranged laugh ringing in his mind. It was definitely a female voice, and Charles flicked through all of the possibilities.

There was no way it was Moira – Charles knew her voice and her laugh, and there was no way that kind woman could purposefully set someone’s bed on fire with the obvious intent to harm, or even kill. Charles then thought about Angel, who often laughed wildly and without shame or restraint, but ruled her out as well. Angel’s voice did not carry that same tone, one of despair mixed with ecstasy.

Charles then considered Lorna, Peter’s maid. The girl was the same age as Charles, but was not the type to laugh in that manner, more restrained in temperament.

The only woman left to consider was Anna-Marie. It _had_ to be her; Charles never really spoke with her, only saying brief and curt ‘hellos’ when they would occasionally pass each other in the kitchens. Anna-Marie kept to herself, and she seemed to have an unusual temperament – she was the only option.

Charles felt like he had to talk to Erik about this, even if it would only be extremely awkward, or even hurtful. Charles was ready to risk Erik’s withering gaze, the one he lavished upon so many other people, but for some reason never used on Charles.

After pushing him away last night, Charles expected to join the throng of people that Erik glared at, and the thought hurt more than Charles wanted it to.

Charles and Moira sat in her tea room, Charles swirling his spoon around a hearty stew that sat in a dainty china bowl in front of him. He pushed the cubed mutton to one side, and the carrots to another. Onions sat in a sad, wilted pile by the southern portion of the bowl.

Moira seemed to notice what he was doing, casting him a concerned gaze.

“Are you alright, Charles? You’ve hardly eaten a thing,” the woman said, stepping closer to press her hand to Charles’s forehead. “You do not feel feverish. Maybe I should call for Dr McCoy to have a look, just in case.”

“I’m alright, Moira,” Charles said, taking the woman by the wrist, squeezing it before pulling it from his forehead. “Just a poor night’s sleep, is all.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t the only one,” Moira said, sighing heavily as she sunk into the chair beside Charles. Charles didn’t even bother pretending to eat his meal, his appetite non-existent after the events of the previous night.

“What are you speaking of, Moira?”

“Well, the master’s rooms caught on fire last night,” Moira said, Charles’s breath stopping.

“What… Did he, did he talk to you about it?” Charles asked, stammering a little as Moira nodded.

“Yes, he said that he had been reading in bed and had fallen asleep. His candle must have caught on his bedding, but thankfully he woke before the fire could spread too much. Burned up his curtains and the posters of his bed, but it was by God’s good graces that no further damage was done.”

_Oh._

“That is very good fortune,” Charles said quietly, Moira nodding in agreement. “Where is Mr Lehnsherr now? I’d like to talk to him… to ensure that he is… well.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother - you just missed him, Charles,” Moira said, patting the tutor’s arm.

“Missed him? Did he leave?” Charles asked a little too quickly. Moira didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, not picking up on the slight rise in pitch of Charles’s voice, or the way he seemed to be winded by the end of the two short questions.

“Yes, he left early this morning, just after dawn. To the Frost residence, a little ride from here. It was very short notice, but none of us were surprised. In fact, we expected him to have left sooner, he rarely stays for more than a few days to a week at a time, but he has been here for almost three weeks already,” Moira said thoughtfully, Charles swallowing the thick globule of saliva that seemed to lodge itself in his throat.

“Did he say when he would return?” Charles asked, fingers gripping onto the hem of his waistcoat tightly. Moira shook her head, Charles’s heart dropping to his stomach.

“He never really says. It could be a week, or a month, or even a year. Ironfield didn’t see its master for almost six seasons at one time. That was almost two years ago, now,” Moira said, Charles quickly standing up from the table, his chair skittering with a loud clatter behind him. “Charles?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, voice pinched. “I may not be feeling well after all.”

“Oh, dear,” Moira said, getting up as well, frowning again. “I will get Alex to call upon Dr McCoy.”

“No, no, there is no need,” Charles said, giving his friend a strained smile. “It is just a lack of sleep. I will nap for a while before my afternoon lessons with Peter. Will you let him know that I’ve given him the morning off?”

“I’m sure he will love you for it,” Moira said, patting Charles’s arm again before leaving the room. Charles swayed on his feet a bit, steadying himself on the back of Moira’s chair, pinching the bridge of his freckled nose tightly as he forced himself to just breathe.

_‘Calm your mind, Charles. Calm yourself. This was to be expected, Moira says that this is normal. You shouldn’t expect any more than what has already been given.’_

_You pushed him away, after all._

***

It was almost two weeks later when Moira burst into the study where Charles was attempting to teach Peter geography, the two of them huddled in front of a large globe. Charles had just begun to go through how the Europeans journeyed across the sea and found Terra Australis, and the sudden crash of a door flying open made him jump.

“Moira? Is something wrong?” Charles asked, Moira’s face puffing out as her words stumbled over one another, hands gesticulating wildly. One of them held an unsealed letter, which had been crumpled up by her tight grip. “Moira, breathe, please. Use your words.”

“Mr Lehnsherr is returning,” Moira said, waving the letter. The blood rushed to Charles’s head, his ears ringing as Moira continued. “He is returning in three days’ time, and it will not be alone. He wishes us to prepare for a party. A party, at Ironfield hall. It is unprecedented!”

“Party? _Herr Charles, is part eine Feier?”_ Peter asked, Charles absently nodding as he processed Moira’s words.

_Erik will be back in three days._

Alex, who had been passing by the study at that exact moment, dropped the silverware he was holding and burst through the already open door with wide eyes.

“Did I hear you correctly, Moira?” Alex asked, frozen as Moira nodded. “The master, inviting guests? The apocalypse is upon us, isn’t it?”

“It will be, if we don’t start preparing!” Moira cried out, excitement and stress evident. “We must alert the cooks, and you and Scott must go to the markets at once, there is no way we have enough ingredients in stock for catering. Oh, and then pick up all that silverware, we need to polish everything before they arrive. We need to dust the curtains, change the furniture, and – oh _Lord_ – the hedges haven’t been pruned for months!”

“ _Herr Charles, Herr Charles,_ does this mean I will get to dress up?” Peter asked, tugging on the hem of Charles’s coat, drawing Charles’s attention away from a mildly panicked Moira and Alex, to the little boy who was bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet with pent up excitement.

Charles swallowed, bending down a little to pat Peter’s head to calm him, nodding slightly.

“Yes, Peter. But we need to finish our lesson first. Then, we can figure out what you will wear when we have guests, alright?”

“Yes!” Peter said, clapping his hands together before spinning the globe, the ball whirling around and around, its speed dizzying.

The rest of the lesson was mostly unproductive, Peter too amped up with the prospect of a party full of unfamiliar faces, food and music, while Charles’s mind spun like the globe Peter kept playing with, spinning around and around, completely lost. Charles tried to picture how he would act when he was in Erik’s presence again, but all of the scenarios made him anxious.

Part of Charles wanted to just give in to the unnatural feelings he had and throw himself into Erik’s embrace. The other, more rational part of him, imagined addressing Erik with a sort of cold indifference, calling him ‘Mr Lehnsherr’ instead of Erik, not even willing to call him the admittedly fond ‘ _Herr Lehnsherr_ ’.

Both of the scenarios, and all of those in between, left Charles feeling empty, like a machine without feelings.

To stave away his unsavoury thoughts, Charles applied himself to help Moira with party preparations, accompanying Alex and Scott to the market to buy things, scrubbing silverware and helping rearrange the furniture. Charles was glad for Moira, who seemed to never run out of things to occupy Charles’s mind with, the woman almost in a frantic state of distress as ‘Mr Lehnsherr should have given her more than three days notice to prepare for a party since they haven’t had one since the previous Mr Lehnsherr passed!’

Charles was able to help Moira a lot, especially after he cut back Peter’s lessons to mornings only. Charles knew that Peter would not be able to concentrate, so lessons finished at lunch time every day, leaving Peter to go off with Lorna to pick out party outfits, even though Moira said that the party was going to be for adults - not a suitable affair for Mr Lehnsherr’s young ward.

By keeping himself busy, the three days passed swiftly, and on the day of the arrival of Mr Lehnsherr and his guests, Ironfield Hall was soon abuzz with excitement. Charles completely gave up on even attempting morning lessons, Peter’s attentions long gone. The young boy was now on his knees and pressing his face against an upper storey window, trying to sneak a peek at the guests that were beginning to arrive.

Charles meandered his way to situate himself beside Peter, hand pressed against the cool glass. As he looked out, Charles noticed a row of lavish carriages much like the ones Kurt Marko had bought and left to sit unused in Westchester’s garages, pull up to the front door of Ironfield Hall.

Men in expensive suits and women with beautifully curled hair and extravagant dresses stepped out from the carriages, and Peter tugged on Charles’s sleeve, eyes not leaving the new arrivals. Peter’s mouth was open in rapture as he eyed the clearly wealthy group.

“ _Herr Charles, Herr Charles!_ Frau MacTaggert told me that Fräulein Frost will be coming. Oh, Herr Charles. Fräulein Frost, _Sie ist die schönste,_ ” Peter gushed, Charles looking to Moira for clarification.

“Miss Frost?” Charles asked, Moira letting out a soft ‘ah’ of understanding.

“Miss Emma Frost. It was her family’s neighbouring estate that the master has been residing at for the past two week and change,” Moira explained, Charles trying to control his expression.

“And Miss Frost. Is she… beautiful?” Charles asked, Moira giving him an odd look, making him clear his throat, clarifying further. “Peter said that _‘Sie ist die schönste’_. That she is the most beautiful.”

“Oh, yes. She is the belle of the county. She is extremely beautiful, and she is very popular out in society. It is not only her beauty, but her family is terribly rich, so she has a sizeable dowry. It is nothing compared to Mr Lehnsherr’s wealth, but for a woman, it makes her more desirable than she already is with her beauty alone.”

“Oh,” Charles said, turning his head back to the window, squinting. From the last carriage, there was a woman just stepping out now, swathed in all white. She was tall, with a slender and lean body draped in a beautiful stark white dress that almost shimmered like it was speckled with diamonds in the sunlight. Her neck was daintily arched, indents sloping into an ample swell of her pale and smooth breasts. Her blonde hair was tied in a bun, with carefully curled ringlets adorning the sides of her face, in the fashion of the day. A white dove’s feather seemed to be nestled in her hair amongst a pearl hair piece.

It was not only her body and fashion sense that were impeccable, but her face was undeniably ethereal too. Her skin was like porcelain, and her features sharp, like they had been carved by Italian artisans in the smoothest marble. Charles imagined her standing beside Erik, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard.

_She is someone that deserves to walk beside Erik._

“Is that her, Moira?” Charles asked, Moira stepping closer to the window to look. “The one wearing all white?”

“Yes, indeed,” Moira said, sighing a little as she eyed Miss Frost’s frock. “As beautiful as always.”

“She must be quite popular,” Charles said, Moira humming.

“Yes, that is a given. However, she is similar to the master in that way. She has yet to accept any man’s proposal, though I dare say that by the end of this trip, we shan’t be able to say that anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Charles asked, turning to Moira with wide eyes, the older woman looking at him with amusement.

“Sometimes I forget that you are still young, Charles. You act so intelligent and mature for your age, but I suppose you are still too young to understand such matters,” Moira laughed, squeezing his shoulder. “It is obvious that Erik invited her with the intent to propose by the end of the party. People have speculated about it for a while, since Miss Frost has shown interest in the master when they were out in society together. Mr Lehnsherr must have finally given in, though it did take him a long time. I wonder why he had a change of heart now.”

Charles swallowed, closing his eyes as his heart cracked in his chest, just a little bit.

_You are lucky, Charles. You are young, and you have never felt love. But in turn, you have never been hurt by it._

Erik’s words from all those days ago reverberated in Charles’s mind.

“No, I understand, Moira,” Charles churned out, squeezing a hand around his heart, suffocating it. “I understand completely.”

***

Charles glared at the back of Erik’s head, but the man did not turn to him. Charles was angry, _livid_ even, and his temper was rarely thrown off course. Erik, however, seemed to be the exception to everything, stirring up Charles’s heart and emotions with nothing more than a gaze, or lack thereof.

Charles was mad because Erik had forced him to join the party the grand hall. The room looked different than how it usually appeared; Charles had helped Alex drag in more tables and chairs, Moira filling usually-empty pots with vibrant flowers. Scott had wheeled in a piano forte into the corner, which was now being played by a young lady that was not Miss Frost – Miss Irene Adler, if Peter’s excited whispers in his ear were to be trusted.

Charles knew the instant he walked in that he did not belong there, amongst this sort of people. Charles had been born into wealth and status, yes, but he had not been raised in it. Charles did not fit in with his threadbare coat and overly washed neck tie, his boots scuffed and beginning to split at the seams. Charles stuck out like a sore thumb, and he didn’t know what Erik wanted to achieve by forcing Charles to be here, in a place where whatever self-worth he thought he had was thoroughly being trampled on.

Even though Erik had invited him in – _ordered_ him, more like it – Charles stayed on the fringe of the party. When he had stepped into the room, Erik’s lips curling upwards as he glanced at Charles for a brief moment before turning back to a conversation between Miss Frost and her mother, Lady Hazel Frost.

Lady Frost was a terrifying woman, with a near-constant predatory grin etched into her elegant but aged face, that bore a striking resemblance to her daughter’s. She was decked out in jewels and silks, though she opted for a flowing gown of a rich violet in contrast to her daughter’s white apparel.

Lady Hazel Frost had not hidden her sneer as she noticed Charles enter the room, blue eyes flicking him up and down, before moving on to Peter, who was standing at Charles’s side.

“Who is that little creature?” the older Lady Frost jeered, eyeing Peter, who did not pick up on the cold social queue and perked up at being noticed, bouncing on his feet like he always did. Peter preened at the attention, stepping forward towards other party guests, bowing and introducing himself, calling people ‘Frau Adler’ and ‘Herr Frost’. Hazel turned up her nose at Peter, ripping her eyes from him with thinly veiled disgust to address Erik again. “I did not know that you were fond of children, Mr Lehnsherr.”

“I am not,” Erik said, looking at Charles, smiling. “There were circumstances, and he was left in my hands. I’d rather not delve into it further.”

“Understandable. It is unfortunate, though. Send the creature to a good English boarding school, I’d say. That would take him out of your hands, dear Lehnsherr,” Lady Frost said. Emma laughed at her mother’s words, a bell-like chime that was as cold as the ice-like diamonds dripping from her blemish-less skin.

“Mother, I see that Lehnsherr has hired a tutor of sorts,” Emma said, glancing at Charles, ghost of a smirk on her face, eyes just as appraising as her mother’s, the women seemingly cut from the same cloth.

“Yes, I noticed him,” Hazel said, not bothering to look at Charles again. “Just look at him, so gloomy in those depressing rags. He is young, and his face is not completely torturous, at least. Nonetheless, tutors are no better than governesses, and you know my thoughts on governesses. They’ll eat you out of house and home, and before you know it, they’re making eyes at the butler – or, God forbid, the master of the house.”

Emma giggled at her mother’s words, leaning in closer to Erik, to whisper exactly what her mother thought about governesses and tutors into Erik’s ear. Charles had to look away from Erik, jaw locked, not wanting to see Erik’s expression as he leaned in towards his wife-to-be.

The large room suddenly began to feel extremely claustrophobic, and Charles had to get _out, out, out_.

Charles did not look at any one as he stalked towards the door from whence he came, hand tugging at his high collar to try and make it easier for him to breathe.

“Charles.”

_Oh, God._

Charles turned at the voice as he reached the stairs, gripping onto the top most banister tightly. The tutor took great pains to keep his face neutral, breathing in and out evenly. Erik stared back at him, gauging Charles’s reaction, pale eyes narrowed slightly.

“What is it?” Charles asked, voice blunt. Erik did not flinch, but his eyes did twitch slightly.

“You rushed out,” Erik said simply, and Charles fought back the urge to scoff. “You look depressed, Charles.”

“I am not _depressed!_ ” Charles denied, face scrunching up as his grip on the staircase tightened.

“You are crying, Charles. Obviously depressed. Tell me, why are you upset?”

“I am not crying-” Charles started immediately, Erik just look at him relentlessly. Charles felt his eyes become hot, vision blurring. _Shit, shit, shit._

“I am not crying,” Charles said again, as if repeating the words would manifest them into reality. It did not work, and Charles was forced to wipe away a stray tear that collected at the base of his eye, about to slip down his cheek. Charles sniffled, swallowing and blinking rapidly. “I am not crying. I am simply tired.”

“Simply tired,” Erik said, not believing Charles in the slightest, which made Charles’s chest fill with anger once again, tears building for newfound reasons.

“Yes, Erik. I am tired. Moira has worked me to the bone in preparation for this gathering for days, so yes, I am tired,” Charles snapped, letting out a shuddering breath. “I wish to retire, my friend.”

  
Erik’s face suddenly grew dark at Charles’s use of the strangely distant 'my friend', his mouth turning down in a blatantly displeased frown.

“I cannot stop you, Charles,” Erik eventually said, after a silent stand-off. “You may retire, but do know that I expect you to be in the drawing room every night after supper. _Every night_.”

“As you wish, my friend,” Charles responded petulantly, using the title for no other reason than to see the displeased expression on Erik’s face grow. If Erik was going out of his way to torment Charles like this, there was no reason for him to refrain from doing the same.

“Good night, then, Charles,” Erik said, voice thin.

“Good night,” Charles responded, whirling on his heel and quickly walking down, taking two stairs at a time.

***

The next night, Charles did as Erik asked, though he planted himself stubbornly behind a screen in the room and buried his nose in one of the books from Erik’s library. Charles ignored the raucous laughter emanating from the Frost family, Emma latching onto Erik’s arm every time someone said something that was apparently hilarious.

Yes, Charles ignored the whole lot of them, but every now and then he may have caught the sight of Erik talking to Miss Frost, occasionally breaking his gaze with her to shoot Charles a heated look, which only made Charles flush and turn back to John Gould’s _'The Birds of Australia'_.

On the second day, a new guest had arrived at Ironfield Hall; a Mr Victor Creed, from somewhere in the Americas. The man was of a stocky build, far broader than Erik and just as tall. His face was covered by a coarse-looking beard, and his hair was shortly cropped, which only emphasised the heavy-set build of his face.

When Alex had told Erik about his new guest, Erik’s face had immediately clammed up, brow crinkling tightly. Erik had muttered something to Alex, who nodded and the two left the party for a brief period of time, before re-entering with Creed in tow.

Creed meshed well with the other partygoers, regaling them of tales about the Americas. The Frosts and the Adlers hung around him, trying to mimic his accent, and him theirs, sending everyone into choirs of laughter.

Erik seemed to stay away from Creed, and hence away from the congregation around him. Instead, Erik hung by the fire with a glass of wine swirling in his hand, staring at Charles, as if his stare would make Charles look up at him. Charles adamantly tried not to, but gave in, if only a few times. Every time, Erik seemed to smile at him in that way that showed too many teeth – one of his real smiles, Charles had discovered.

Charles lasted the entire night in that room the second time, until the party dispersed back to their bed chambers for the night. Charles did not look up when Erik walked past with Emma hanging from his arm, ensuring to comment that he would escort lady to her chambers, Emma giggling and calling him a true gentleman. Charles swallowed back the bitterness, not enjoying the taste at all.

Charles retired to his own chambers a short while after everyone else, not wanting to catch any stragglers loitering in the halls. When Charles returned to his room, he splashed some cool water across his face, before flopping onto his bed face down.

Charles groaned and buried his head into his pillow, banging it against the soft bundle of feathers and fabric, as if it would shake out the images of Erik and Emma, the two of them looking like a picture, perfect in every way.

Charles lay there for a short while, until the constraints of his clothing became stifling. Charles had just pulled off his coat and unfastened his waistcoat when there was a loud, rattling scream, Charles startling mid-action. His initial thought was _Anna-Marie_ , but after pushing away the initial shock, Charles realised that the scream was most definitely masculine.

Lighting a candle, Charles quickly stepped outside. Other people had heard the chilling sound as well, and had already begun gathering in the hallway. Everyone stood, confused and shocked in their nightwear; the women had small strips cloth tied in their hair to fix their curls, and men looked groggy, beards and hair in disarray.

Hazel Frost regarded Charles with disgust while pulling her elaborate sleep coat around her, and he pushed himself into the wall, as if to blend with it. Hazel only took her eyes off Charles when Erik entered from an archway, hand behind his back, out of view from everyone except for Charles, who was so tightly pressed against the far wall that he could see Erik’s back.

Erik’s hand was dripping with blood, and Charles’s eyes widened. Blood dripped steadily from Erik’s fisted hand and onto the wooden floor behind him, so Charles quickly untied his necktie and dropped it to the ground, pretending to pick it up while furiously wiping up the blood. Erik seemed to notice Charles’s actions, turning his head back and leaning in carefully.

“Wait for me in your chambers after,” Erik said, voice low. Charles nodded, picking up his bloodied neck tie from the ground, and stepping back again.

“Lehnsherr!” Emma called out when she spotted her soon-to-be-fiancé. “What was that ghastly noise?”

“It was nothing to be concerned about,” Erik said slowly, Emma giving him an apprehensive look, staring at his forehead like she was trying to draw out the truth, not believing him completely. “This is an old house, and it is prone to making noises from time to time. Ironfield has many tales about ghosts that lurk its halls. Perhaps, after a good night’s sleep, I could tell you all about them over breakfast.”

“Ghosts, how exciting,” Emma laughed, others joining in, curious. Erik just nodded, smiling that fake-smile he sometimes wore, before extending his uninjured arm out to Emma.

“Let me escort you back to your chambers, Miss Frost,” Erik said, smiling a little. “I have been told that my face scares off many people, even ghosts.”

“Oh, you need not protect me from the ghosts, Lehnsherr. I am stronger than I look,” Emma said, though she looped her arm through Erik’s anyway. “And, your face does not incite fear in _all_ people.”

Charles watched as people began wandering back into their rooms, returning to his after wiping up a few more drops of Erik’s blood, heart hammering. He returned to his room and paced around, the candle dropping about a centimetre in height before there were two solid raps on his door.

Opening it, Charles looked up at Erik, who returned the look with a serious gaze.

“Take your candle and follow me,” Erik said, Charles doing as he was asked and following closely at Erik’s back; even though he knew that Erik’s tale about the ghosts of Ironfield were a ploy, the idea still unnerved him, and he walked closer to Erik than he usually would.

It was when they drew closer to the deserted west wing that Erik reached behind him with his good hand to grasp Charles’s. Charles twitched, but Erik’s grip only tightened, not letting Charles go.

They were silent as they continued walking, only stopping briefly for Erik to unlock a door leading to a spiralling stone stairwell. They ascended, Erik walking at a brisk pace with his long legs, leaving Charles to stumble after him. Charles tripped a little, the action causing him to tug on Erik’s arm. The older man turned back, face apologetic.

“Are you alright, Charles?” Erik whispered, Charles nodding, heart in his throat. “Do you faint at the sight of blood?”

Charles looked at Erik’s hand, remembering the bloodied neck tie he left in his room, and shook his head. Erik sighed, relieved, and squeezed Charles’s hand.

“Are you afraid?” Erik asked, as they neared the top of the stairs. Erik tugged Charles towards him by their joined hands, Charles having to part his legs slightly to rest his feet besides Erik’s on the same step with how close Erik held him.

The staircase was narrow, and Erik’s large frame crowded Charles against a wall.

“Charles, are you afraid?” Erik asked again, face so close to Charles’s. The younger man could see the red flicker of the candle in the reflection of Erik’s eyes, which looked into his without wavering.

“No,” Charles breathed out, Erik closing his eyes briefly, as if relishing their close proximity, before pushing back and unlocking the second door.

The two of them stepped through the door’s threshold, and Charles audibly gasped when he saw Victor Creed lying on a tattered chaise lounge, shirt torn open and revealing a profusely bleeding red gash across his chest.

Erik pulled Charles closer, and the tutor’s eyes widened to saucers when he saw the wound more clearly; there were two stippled arches, deep and red, and part of it seemed like the flesh had been gouged out. Or _bitten_ out. It clearly looked like bite marks, and Charles turned to Erik, mouth open in a silent question.

Erik looked apologetic again, rubbing his thumb across the back of Charles’s hand before letting go and bending to one knee beside Creed, leaning closer.

“Creed, I’m going to fetch a doctor and you will be alright. Do not speak about what happened here, under no circumstances,” Erik said, Victor barely responding, his face ashen and sweat beading on his brow.

Getting back up, Erik grasped Charles’s shoulders, before sliding his hands to his neck, then upwards to cup his cheek, the touch too intimate to be comfortable.

“Charles, look after him while I ride to fetch Dr McCoy. I won’t be more than an hour, you know what to do, yes?”

“Y-Yes,” Charles said, looking down at the man, who had begun breathing heavily, murmuring incoherently. “Go, Erik. Go quickly.” _And return to me._

Erik nodded, disappearing back down the stairs. Charles sucked in a tight breath, before grabbing some of the cloth laid out on a table beside the chaise, pressing it against Creed’s wound. The man moaned in pain, teeth gnashing, and Charles shushed him with a soothing tone. Charles took another cloth dipped in cold water, dabbing at the man’s sweat-laden brow. Creed writhed, grunting out phrases that made no sense to Charles – ‘she attacked’, ‘I never thought’, ‘that bastard’.

“Calm yourself, my friend, you are alright now,” Charles chanted, not sure if he was speaking to the injured American or to himself. “Calm yourself.”

Time passed, and soon Creed settled down slightly from a combination of exhaustion and Charles’s soothing. There were no clocks in the tower room, and from the window it still appeared dark outside, so Charles had no way to ascertain what time it was; so, he just kept focusing on breathing. In and out, in and out.

Wind swirled around the tower, almost making a whistling noise that Charles shivered at. His candle fluttered every now and then, until a particularly gusty wind rippled through the room, blowing out Charles’s candle completely.

“Shit,” Charles muttered, suddenly thrust into darkness, Victor groaning at the sound. “Sorry, sorry. Calm, you’re alright.”

As Charles spoke, there was a loud banging noise from behind a dangling tapestry in front of Charles, the young man squeaking, hand flying to his heart. Victor groaned, twitching from where he reclined in the chaise. There was another bang, followed by the rattle of metal, before things stilled again.

Charles’s muscles were taut, and he wanted to inspect the disconcerting rattling – or run away from it. But Victor let out a long noise of pain again, Charles ignoring the ominous noises and focusing on the injured man in front of him, continuing to put pressure on the wound while dabbing at his forehead.

After what seemed like an eternity, Erik finally returned, followed by a meek and lanky-looking man with large glasses and dark hair carrying a stiff leather bag. The young man’s eyes widened, much like how Charles imagined his had when he first laid eyes on Victor, before taking Charles’s position on the floor beside the patient.

The doctor – Hank McCoy – peeled back the cloth Charles had pressed against the wound, sucking in a tight breath.

“These are… _bite marks?_ ” Dr McCoy asked, looking up at Erik, who returned the look with a glare.

“I brought you here to fix him, not ask questions,” Erik snapped, McCoy blanching and nodding.

“I can only do so much here, he will need stitches and medication. I’ll stem the bleeding for now, but we need to get him to my clinic,” McCoy said, Erik grunting but conceding. McCoy worked quickly, bandaging the wound before letting Erik hoist the man over his shoulders. The four of them hobbled down the stairs to where Scott was waiting with a carriage, the boy looking half asleep but startling to attention when he spotted Erik dragging a seemingly half-dead Creed by the arm.

McCoy climbed into the carriage first, helping Erik pull Creed onto one of the sets. On the walk down, Creed had regained some more of his consciousness with the help of McCoy’s smelling salts, and after he was loaded up into the carriage, he leaned out the window to tightly grasp the front of Erik’s crinkled shirt.

“Look after her,” Creed gritted out, Erik’s mouth pulling into a grimace, pushing the man’s hand off him. “Lehnsherr! Remember your promise, you bastard! You made a promise!”

“Yes, how could I forget. It haunts me every waking moment of every fucking day,” Erik hissed, pushing the injured man harshly further into the carriage, banging his fist on the carriage twice to signal Scott to go. Scott clicked his tongue, the dual dark-coat horses lurching forward.

Erik and Charles watched the carriage pull away, and Erik’s shoulders immediately loosened once it was out of sight.

“Walk with me, Charles,” Erik said, glancing at the young man standing just behind him, offering a hand. Charles did not take it, but took a step forward, Erik huffing.

The two men walked around the side of Ironfield’s front patio, to the stairs of the garden, secluded from view. Day had broken the moment they hauled Creed down, and Charles was exhausted – Erik, too, looked worse for wear - and it was then that Charles remember that Erik’s hand was also injured.

“Erik, your hand,” Charles said, breaking the thick silence between them.

“It is nothing,” Erik replied brusquely, Charles shaking his head, reaching for Erik’s injured hand gently. Charles pulled it to him, palm up, eyeing the wound across it. It was truly not that large, blood no longer flowing but crusted over a coin-sized nick. Charles ran his fingers around the skin surrounding the wound, Erik’s good hand moving to rest over Charles’s, covering it completely.

“Such small hands, yet they did not tremble,” Erik voiced, turning Charles’s palm over, tracing his fingers across his love line.

“I only did as I must,” Charles said, Erik chuckling.

“Yes. Only you would have a hand in saving two lives, and pass it off as nothing,” Erik said, turning Charles’s hand over in his again, as if marvelling at it.

Charles swallowed, not quite able to pull his hand away from Erik’s, not when it held him like this.

“This spring, I came home. Heart sore, and soul withered,” Erik said, bending Charles’s wrist so he could lace his fingers through Charles’s. “Then I met a gentle stranger, with whom, I feel like I could live again. But, there are obstacles that I must overleap to obtain them. Tell me, Charles. Am I naïve in thinking that the obstacles are not too high? That I could leap over them and make it to the other side?”

Charles immediately thought of Emma Frost, and that was what gave Charles the strength to tear his hand away from Erik’s, stepping back. Charles cradled his hand against his chest, eyeing Erik wearily.

“There are no obstacles,” Charles said bitterly, knowing that Emma was a perfect match for Erik. _‘Unlike me, who is unnatural and unworthy.’_

“Not in the conventional sense,” Erik pushed, Charles laughing emptily.

“If you cherish an affection, my friend, then fortune alone cannot impede you,” Charles replied, and it was Erik’s turn to churn out a laugh, looking at Charles with a heated look.

“Another naïve sentiment, Charles,” Erik said, slapping the stone of the stair’s railing thoughtfully. “It appears that your naivety is rubbing off on me.”

With that, Erik softly told Charles to get some rest, and that he did not expect Charles to join them today, since he needed to recuperate after the night’s events. Charles returned to his rooms, tired to the bone, but unable to sleep, because even in his dreams, Erik did not leave him in peace.


	5. Chapter 5

It was midday on a Tuesday when Moira interrupted Charles’s lesson with Peter, the boy being allowed an early tea time.

“What is it, Moira?”

“Someone has come to visit you, and they are currently waiting in the foyer. A Mrs Katherine Hudson, I believe,” Moira said, Charles crinkling his nose, the name unfamiliar to him. Charles did not have a wide social circle, the only people who would call on him residing in either Westchester or Graymalkin – and they would rarely have a need to call upon him in person.

“I do not know of any Hudsons, let alone a Katherine Hudson. Did she say where she has travelled from?”

“She said that she knew you when you were a boy. She introduced herself as Mrs Hudson, but she did mention that you used to call her ‘Kitty’.”

Charles’s eyes widened as his lips spread into a wide, giddy smile. Kitty had come to visit him, his favourite and most beloved nurse that used to sneak him sweet biscuits and wipe his sweaty brow when he was feverish. She had been Katherine ‘Kitty’ Pryde when Charles had been at Westchester, but that was eight years ago – Kitty must have gotten married to a Mr Hudson, and Charles knew that the man was one lucky bastard.

Charles laughed aloud, feeling lighter than he had been for the past few days, kissing Moira on both cheeks before rushing past. Charles did not spare a glance at the drawing room, where the tinkle of piano music was drifting out of the open door, accompanied by the laughter and chatter of noble gents and ladies.

Charles caught, in the corner of his eye, Erik glancing at him as he brushed past the doorway, but the tutor moved too quickly for Erik to comment on his sudden presence.

“Kitty!” Charles called as he reached the top of the steps leading into the foyer, the woman standing below turning to the sound of the voice, revealing her face. Kitty looked very much the same as the image Charles conjured up in his memories, and barely looked a day older despite eight years having passed. She was dressed in a demure light blue day dress, and her hair was done up in a slightly more fashionable style than what she wore as a maid in Westchester. She held a bonnet with a matching sky-blue ribbon in her hands.

“Master Charles, is that you?” Kitty said, rushing forward as Charles leapt down the stairs, not caring about manners as he lunged towards Kitty, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. Her billowing skirt got in the way a little, and the stiff bodice of her dress pressed uncomfortably against Charles’s chest, but he did not care. Kitty laughed with surprise, but returned Charles’s embrace wholeheartedly.

“My, how you’ve grown! You’re not the little master that I used to know,” Kitty spoke fondly as the two pulled apart, pulling at Charles’s shoulders to make him turn around in a circle so she could inspect him. “You’ve grown into a handsome young man, Charles, but those sparkling blue eyes of yours are still the same. I knew school would do you good.”

“It did. And you, Kitty. I have just heard that I can no longer address your as Miss Pryde. You are Mrs Hudson now, is that correct?” Charles asked, Kitty blushing a little, making Charles’s grin stretch wider, eyes glimmering. “Do tell me, Kitty. Who is this mysterious Mr Hudson?”

“I am indeed Mrs Jimmy Hudson now,” Kitty admitted, showing Charles the simple gold band around her ring finger. “He is a good man, and works as a coachman. He came to work at Westchester a mere few months after you left for school.”

“Congratulations, Kitty,” Charles said, hugging his old nurse – his friend – again. “Oh, I have missed you, Kitty. And all of the others at Westchester.” Kitty warmed at the young master’s words, clasping his hand with hers. Kitty’s touch was still as gentle and comforting as Charles remembered it to be.

“If you really missed us, Master Charles, you would have written to us sooner – I had sent correspondence to Graymalkin where I had heard that you were a teacher, but they said that you had moved on to find new employment! And Ironfield hall is even further away from Westchester than Graymalkin, I’ve been travelling for days to meet you,” Kitty said, touching Charles’s cheek.

“I do apologise, Kitty. Time is a luxury, these days. I’ve been so busy,” Charles apologised, Kitty shaking her head, waving away his words.

“No, no, you need not apologise, Master Charles. I am glad that you have been keeping yourself busy. You are a tutor here, if I have heard correctly. You must enjoy the work immensely.”

“Oh, I do, Kitty,” Charles gushed, thinking about Peter and his smiling face, how his nose crinkled when he struggled on an arithmetic problem or when he tried to recall all of the countries of Europe. “I have but one pupil, but teaching him is very fulfilling. He is quite energetic, and quick-witted, so he keeps me on my toes.”

“I do say that you’ve found your calling,” Kitty said, genuinely happy for her not-so-little master. “And is your employer, the master of this house, a good man?”

Charles faltered a little, but the slight hesitation went unnoticed by Kitty. Charles cleared his throat, nodding.

“Yes, he treats me… appropriately. He is a fair and just master. His other subordinates treat me well, too. You must have met Moira, Mrs MacTaggert, earlier,” Charles said, Kitty nodding.

“Yes, she was lovely. I was truly relieved to find that you are surrounded by agreeable people here, Master Charles,” Kitty said, the two of them knowing that the same could not be said about Westchester. At the reminder of Charles’s former home, Kitty’s exuberance at their reunion dimmed, her expression turning grave. Charles felt apprehension churn in his gut, his brow creasing.

“What is it, Kitty? If you’ve come to visit me, something must have happened. Is everyone at Westchester alright? I can only imagine what must have happened if you are here asking after me now. I do hope no one is dead,” Charles said, growing more nervous as Kitty seemed to try to find words.

“I wish I came under better circumstances, young master, but no. You see, Master Cain Marko has passed. It was yesterday a week, now,” Kitty said. Charles’s mouth dropped open with a shocked pop.

The name from his past sent a series of shockwaves coursing through Charles’s body, and for a moment, it was like he had a bout of severe vertigo. When everything righted itself, Charles looked at Kitty carefully.

“And how does his father, I mean, my step-father bear it?” Charles asked, knowing that Kurt considered Cain the sole heir to the Marko-Xavier fortune. Now that Cain was dead, Charles could only imagine the state Kurt must be in.

“Why you see, young master, it was not a common mishap; Master Cain’s life has been very wild, and these last three years he has given himself up to strange ways. Drinking, gambling, unsavoury acts. It was no secret. His death was shocking, but it did not come as a shock,” Kitty said, dropping her voice and whispering, as if speaking about the dead man would rouse him from the grave.

“Unsavoury acts?”

“Yes. Master Cain associated himself will all manner of ill folk, and got into debt and thrown into jail. Of course, his father helped him out on multiple occasions, but he was not strong of head or heart, and fell into his old ways soon enough. They say…” Kitty said, leaning in closer now. “They say he _killed himself_.”

“Killed himself?!” Charles exclaimed, his voice echoing in the foyer, Kitty wincing. Charles gathered his voice, dropping his speech to a quiet mumble. “If that is the case, I can only guess that my step father is beside himself.”

“That he is, young master. When he found out, he was in a rage for the next two days. His reaction was unlike that of a father losing a son, but not surprising for a man like Kurt Marko. In his rage, though, he seemed to burst something in his brain, and now he is bed-ridden. The doctor says that he does not have much longer to live, now. Which is why I am here. Master Marko does not speak much after being struck with illness, but he keeps saying ‘Charles, Charles’ over and over,” Kitty explained, Charles growing a little pale.

Even after all these years, even when Charles believed that he had moved on from the terror the Markos have stirred up in his life, just the mention of their names sends his gut twisting.

_‘No, Charles. You are no longer the ten-year-old Charles Marko. You are not afraid of him. You are Charles Xavier, tutor to Peter Eisenhardt, employee and… equal, of Mr Erik Lehnsherr. You are Charles Xavier, and you are not afraid, and you are not alone.’_

“I must go to Westchester,” Charles said, now grasping Kitty’s hand, tapping it as he thought. “We must leave quickly. Westchester is a day or two’s ride from Ironfield, and if Kurt Marko is in such a dire situation as you suggest, then he may even breathe his last breath before we mount a carriage. Kitty, I need to speak with Eri- Mr Lehnsherr about being granted leave, and need to pack a few things.”

“Of course, Master Charles. I can assist with the packing, if Mrs MacTaggert allows me,” Kitty offered, Charles kissing her cheek gratefully. Charles soon found Alex, who was more than happy to find Moira and help Charles pack while he went to speak with Erik.

While Charles had been speaking with Kitty, Erik and his party had left the drawing room and withdrawn outdoors to the gardens. The spring weather was lovely this day, contrary to the gloom surrounding the events at Westchester, and Charles had to shield his eyes from the obscenely bright sun as he made his way outside.

It was not hard to find them, Charles only needing to follow the chorus of obnoxious laughter. Charles found Erik sitting with Miss Frost beneath a vine-covered canopy, the two of them seemingly engaged in conversation. Erik had a small smile on his face, one that was vaguely amused, while Emma returned the look with an elegant curl of her lips. They stared into each other’s eyes, seeming to speak with their gazes and their minds, and Charles had to clear his throat to garner Erik’s attention when he approached.

Charles bit down on the poisonous green monster and tried to kill it. He was not victorious.

Emma smirked a little, tilting her blonde hair to the side as she watched Charles. Her gaze was a little different than usual. She did not look at him like he was something she should crush underneath a bejewelled shoe, but regarded him curiously, like she was trying to figure something out.

Erik stood quickly, murmuring something to Emma, who just smiled knowingly and turned away from Charles and Erik to peruse a small novella in her hands.

Erik strode over to Charles, eyebrow raised in that way that asked ‘what is it?’.

“I need to leave Ironfield,” Charles said, Erik freezing. Erik stared at him, jaw set tightly, before roughly grabbing Charles by the elbow and hauling him out of the gardens and back into the large mansion. Erik manhandled Charles into his study, shutting the door behind him, his larger frame blocking Charles’s exit.

“Erik, that was completely unnecessary. Why did you haul me here?” Charles huffed, rubbing his elbow as Erik regarded him carefully. “You were awfully rough about it too.”

“You say that you need to _leave_ Ironfield, and then you ask me this?” Erik retorted hotly, crossing his arms over his robust chest. “Why do you think I reacted like that?”

Charles did not want to think about the answer to that question, his heart thumping.

“Well, that is not the pertinent matter right now. As I was saying before you manhandled me from the gardens in the view of all of your guests, I require a leave of absence, for a week or two,” Charles said, flicking his blue eyes to meet Erik’s, which seemed to dawn with understanding. Charles could see the moment Erik’s tension seeped from his tight shoulders, how he relaxed a little and dropped his crossed arms to his side.

“For a week or two,” Erik mimicked, Charles rolling his eyes a little at Erik’s slowness this afternoon.

“Yes, as I said. A week or two, or longer. It is hard to say.”

“What for? Where are you going?” Erik questioned, stepping away from the door now that he knew that Charles was not running from Ironfield forever, moving past the tutor to sit on the edge of his desk. Charles drank in the image of Erik’s long legs crossing over as he rested his hands on either side of his hips on the desk, muscles flexing beneath his shirt.

“My step-father has summoned me. He is dying,” Charles said simply, shrugging. Erik noticed Charles’s shoulders sink, and he stood from his desk again, coming to stand in front of Charles.

The older man gently nudged Charles’s chin upwards to meet his eyes, which were warm in their icy hue.

“The step-father that disliked you because you are smarter and prettier than him?” Erik asked, Charles letting out a bubbly laugh, one that coaxed a shark-like smile from Erik. The sight of the smile made Charles’s insides melt.

“One and the same,” Charles said, voice gentle.

“Good riddance, then,” Erik said, and despite his rude remark about a dying man, Charles couldn’t help but laugh.

“He’s _dying_ Erik. There is nothing good about it,” Charles chastised half-heartedly, the smile on his face showing Erik that he wasn’t truly mad.

“So you will be gone a week?” Erik asked, Charles shrugging once again. Erik’s hand moved from Charles’s chin to rest against the curve of his shoulder, thumb brushing against the fabric covering his neck.

“A week, maybe more. It is hard to say. Since he is dying, I can’t put a time on that.”

“Then I hope he dies quickly,” Erik muttered, Charles choking on his breath, Erik shooting him a cheeky grin.

“ _Erik!_ That is- You- He’s a dying man, Erik!” Charles spluttered, the older man barking out a laugh.

“He is of no importance to me, and from what you have told me about him, you even making plans to visit him is more than he deserves. For what he’s done to you, no one can be mad at me for wishing him a swift death,” Erik said, and Charles didn’t know whether to be afraid, upset or flattered. Maybe a mixture of all three.

“You are incorrigible,” Charles harrumphed, rolling his eyes. “ _And_ you owe me wages. I have yet to be paid for my many months of service.”

“How much do I owe you?” Erik asked, stroking his thumb along the slope of Charles’s chin before stepping back, opening a little box on his desk and pulling out some bills.

“Fifteen pounds.”

“Here’s fifty,” Erik said easily, holding out a large sum of cash in front of Charles, the tutor’s eyes bugging out at the sheer number.

“What? No! You only owe me fifteen,” Charles replied stubbornly, Erik grinning.

“You are the first person to not accept a raise in their wages. Come, Charles. Take the money,” Erik said, shaking the bill in front of him again, eyes alight.

“No, you only owe me fifteen, Erik. If you don’t have smaller change, I can receive my wages when I return.” Erik liked the way Charles phrased it, like it was a simple fact that he would come back.

“You need money to travel, Charles. Take it,” Erik said again, a little impatience seeping into his tone now. Charles just rolled his eyes, now crossing his own arms across his chest. Charles did not respond and just stared at Erik challengingly, his employer gritting his teeth and throwing he fifty pounds back into the box and pulling out another slip of paper. “Fine. Then I only have ten.”

“ _Fine_. You can owe me five pounds, then,” Charles said, moving to swipe the cash from Erik’s hand, the man withdrawing it at the last second. Charles scoffed, before saying with a huff, “Really, Erik?”

“You will come back for the other five, won’t you?” Erik asked, more of a promise than a question, lowering his arm so Charles could take the money. When Charles’s fingers pinched the note, Erik’s other arm quickly came forward to latch onto it, holding Charles in place. “You will come back, won’t you, Charles?”

“Yes,” Charles breathed out, Erik squeezing his hands, before letting him go. Charles turned to leave, but before he left Erik’s study, he turned back around, a small smile playing at his face.

“Since you still owe me five, I won’t be going easy on you in our next chess game. You haven’t paid me to let you win, yet,” Charles said, grinning at the sound of Erik’s unabashed laughter than resonated after him as he walked down the hall, already counting down the days until he would return.

Back to Ironfield. And back to Erik.

***

A day’s carriage ride later, Charles pulled in through the heavy metal gates of the Westchester estate.

Westchester was almost exactly the same as how Charles remembered it, but it seemed a lot smaller now. Charles wasn’t sure if it was because he had grown in height (though not by a lot, compared to other boys), or if it was just because he was no longer filled with terror as he walked through the grand halls of his childhood.

Not to say that Charles was not afraid – he was, but it was only his intangible memories that he was scared of. It was only memories of books being slammed over his head, of the way his breaths seemed too loud when he was hiding from Cain, of the eerie creaking in the Red Room that made Charles’s breath sometimes quicken.

But in the present, Charles was not afraid. Cain was no longer stalking the halls of his former home, and Kurt Marko was bedridden and apparently paralysed on the left side of his body. A bleed in the brain, they said, caused by stress, drinking and his robust size.

Kitty touched Charles’s arm and told him she would carry his meagre belongings to his old chambers that the staff had maintained even in his absence. Kitty also informed him that at this time, late in the afternoon, Kurt was usually asleep after having an early supper of watery porridge and lukewarm tea, unable to stomach much else. Charles would have to wait until morning to speak with him, if he lasted through the night.

If anything, the fact that Kurt Marko was still breathing after his near-fatal fit only showed how relentless the man was, clinging to this last thread of life with tenacious will-power. _‘Erik,’_ Charles thought, ‘ _would probably curse the man’s apparent inability to die swiftly.’_

With nothing else to do, Charles roamed the empty halls of Westchester. He passed by the room of portraits, lingering a moment in front of the image of his mother and father, labelled ‘Mr and Mrs Brian Xavier’. Beside it was a portrait of Kurt Marko, the man’s large form covering an entire portrait, with no room for much else.

Walking through the room, Charles moved onto the library – it seemed to remain relatively untouched, no one in Westchester being much of an avid reader, not like Charles. The young man ran his fingers over the neatly stored spines of the books, before stopping at ‘ _Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens’._ Charles pulled it out, and saw a little crust of brown at the bottom corner of the book; a little crust of blood that lingered here, even when the wound it came from had long since healed on Charles’s head.

That was much like everything else here at Westchester. Everything was a remnant of times past, stagnant and unchanging. It seemed that only Charles, who had miraculously escaped the estate’s still hourglass, had moved forwards. Charles, and Charles alone.

Charles found his favourite nook, but this time he did not feel the need to draw the curtains to obscure himself. His longer body fit the alcove more snugly than before, knees bent out of necessity rather than comfort, and he leaned against the window as he flicked through the pages of ‘ _Zur Entwicklungsgeschichte des Pollens’._

Now that he was more educated, he no longer had to skip the long German words that he did not know, and he did not have to decipher meaning from a mish-mash of pictures and phrases. Charles read the book thoroughly, fingers running over worn pages and faded watercolours, before Kitty found him and called him for supper.

“Will mother be joining us?” Charles asked, Kitty shaking her head.

“You know the mistress,” Kitty replied, Charles nodding and not saying anything further. “But, she has been a bit more lucid as of late. It may be good for you to see her as well, young master, before you go. She is usually best after supper; having something in her stomach usually helps her, so tomorrow evening would be ideal.”

“Thank you, Kitty,” Charles said, the woman smiling as she placed a hearty stew in front of Charles. Unlike before, the stew was thick and full of ingredients, the staff no longer having to try and bypass Marko’s restrictions and able to use whatever they wanted to feed their returning young master.

Everyone was so glad to see that their young Master Charles had grown into a fine young man; short, but boyishly handsome, with rosy cheeks and a vibrant smile. They compared him to the now departed Cain, and the contrast was like night and day.

Charles invited all members of the staff to dine with him, and he regaled them stories of his time at school – only the good memories with Raven, of course – and how his life was at Ironfield. Everyone listened to Charles with rapt attention, their hearts light with the knowledge that their young master had grown to become eloquent and educated, but retaining the same youthful innocence and kindness that they remembered from all those years ago.

Charles returned to his chambers early, body and mind drained from the long journey, but found that he could not drift off to sleep easily even with a full and content belly. His bed was not as comfortable as the one he had in Ironfield, and even though Kitty had lit a substantial fire in his chambers, he felt a little cold.

It was in a moment between wake and sleep that Charles realised that Ironfield was now his home and where he belonged; alongside Moira, Alex and Peter. Beside Herr Lehnsherr. Beside his Erik.

***

While everything at Westchester remained the same, Kurt Marko did not. He looked like a mere shell of the man that he once was, shrivelled and puny and buried in layers of blankets to stave away the cold. He was a shadow of the terrifying figure Charles pictured in his head, and that alone made Charles step towards him confidently the next morning.

Kurt Marko’s eyes watched him, one drifting lazily in the opposite direction, the other one recognising him instantly. Those blue eyes, the floppy and thick brown hair, the smattering of freckles and unnaturally red lips. Kurt Marko would recognise that Xavier boy anywhere, even on his deathbed.

“Hello, step-father,” Charles said evenly, voice deeper and more measured than Kurt Marko remembered it to be. He no longer sounded like the boy who cried out to be released from the Red Room, and Kurt gurgled out a putrid laugh at that.

“You have grown,” Kurt slurred, a little drool dribbling from his lips and down his chin, but he could barely feel it.

“It has been eight years,” Charles replied, the dying man choking on a bitter laugh. “I am not the same person as the boy that was sent off to Graymalkin School.”

“Evidently. A teacher now, are you,” Kurt said, wheezing a little from where he sat semi-supine in his bed, torso propped up with numerous pillows. His hair had grown grey and it was thinning terribly, combed over only to reveal a speckled head creased with wrinkles.

“Yes, and I enjoy it very much,” Charles replied, moving to stand beside his step-father’s bed, taking a towel that Kitty had left beside it to dab at the drool on the man’s face. Kurt looked incensed at the seemingly belittling notion, spluttering something unintelligible at Charles, weakened arms feebly swatting the young man away.

“Why…” Kurt heaved, eyes alive with the flames of hatred, incongruent with the weakness of the rest of his body. Kurt’s body was weak, but his soul was still very much alive, running on the fumes of almost a decade of hatred. “Why must you still live, but Cain… my Cain, my _son_ , be the one buried beneath the ground?!”

“Because I looked after my health, Sir,” Charles said evenly, taking care to remain calm, not wanting to fall to his step-father’s level and give in to the anger simmering beneath his freckled skin. Charles would not be the boy who retaliated against his step-brother and hit him over the head. Charles would not stoop to that level of being ever again.

“Bah! You were always an unnatural child, protected by demons. I sent you to Graymalkin School where I thought you would die. You were supposed to die, of typhus or accident. But no… No… You are still standing here, healthy and blue-eyed, looking like your father, like all the other fucking Xaviers,” Marko spat, Charles frowning. The movement in his face seemed to feed into Marko’s anger, the man grinning at the reaction he caused.

“I know that you do not want to be here. Why would you?” Marko sneered, pushing himself up a bit as his body was wracked by a fit of coughs. Charles held a glass of water to his chin to try and help wet the man’s throat, but he just growled and smacked Charles’s wrist, the glass of water tumbling onto the carpet and staining it dark.

“I heard that you were dying, step-father, and I wanted to make peace,” Charles said, the man just chuckling darkly.

“ _Make peace_. Make _peace_? How could I make peace with the thing that has tormented me for so long? I know what people think of me, and I know about what they think of you. _‘The true Xavier heir’_. They call me a usurper, and my son a false prince, all because _you_ exist!” Marko coughed harshly again, and Charles was startled as a light spray of blood spurted onto the white bedding by his step-father’s head.

“Step-father, calm yourself. You are not well,” Charles said, but not making a move to wipe away the spittle or the blood.

“Don’t speak to me as if you are superior, boy! I am Kurt Marko. I own the land you stand on, the wooden boards beneath your feet, the roof over your head. Everything is in my name, and you do not own a single bit of it! It was supposed to go to my son, my real son, not the fucking Xavier offal that Sharon sired. You…” Kurt said, pointing a fat, shaking finger towards Charles. “You… You probably came here because you thought that because I am dying, everything I own will become yours, hm? Well, you are mistaken.”

Charles looked at his step-father, confused and fists clenched. Kurt mistook Charles’s confusion for anger, and cackled in spite.

“None of this belongs to you. Upon my death, you will have none of it. Your name is not mentioned in my will, and Sharon will get nothing except for that cart of whisky in the cellar and the old, decaying cottage by the stormy ocean. This… All of this may no longer be under the Marko name, but like Hell I’ll hand it all to a Xavier.”

Kurt wheezed again, now completely drained, but smirked at Charles in satisfaction. Charles just regarded him with apathy and a hint of disgust, wondering what it was about this pitiful, pitiful man that inspired so much fear in him before. Looking at him now, all Charles could see was a spiteful, depressed old man who, in the end, possessed nothing of worth. No family, no love, and certainly no happiness.

Charles didn’t want anything he had, not even one shilling.

“Thank you, step-father,” Charles said, the man in the bed stilling as he stared at the young man who rose from his chair. “For relieving me of the burdens and trappings of this house, and everything in it. I had no desire for it, and you have organised new accommodations for my mother, which I also thank you for. And now that you have so cleanly cut ties with me, once and for all, I will see myself out. I hope your last days are peaceful, and that you pass without pain. Farewell.”

Charles did not look back at his step-father when he left his grand chambers, the old man spluttering obscenities in Charles’s wake.

Kurt Marko died that night after a laborious coughing fit; his sheets were stained with blood, and the contorted look on his face showed that he had not died peacefully, nor did he die without pain.

***

Charles saw Sharon Marko the day after her husband passed. He found her in her drawing room standing by the window, a near-empty glass swirling in her hand. There was an opened bottle of half-finished wine resting within arm’s reach beside her, the cork long discarded since once a bottle was opened in the presence of Sharon Marko, it was always finished by the end of the evening.

Sharon Marko was a beautiful woman, but her beauty was diminished by the way she carried herself, already under the influence of what looked to be her second bottle. Her blonde hair that appeared golden in the Xavier portrait was now coloured like dull straw and simply tied in a knot at the base of her skull above her hunched neck. Her skin was wrinkled, splotchy and red from the drink, and her poor dietary habits meant that she was thin and frail, though naturally tall.

Now, she wore a black mourning dress, black lace veil obscuring most of her flat hair.

Her face was tired and weathered, and when she turned to look at her son, it did not even look as if she recognised him. She did, though, and momentarily put down her drink to wave the young man over.

“Charles,” she said, the name sounding foreign in her voice. “My son. I have not seen you since you were…”

“Ten. Eight years ago now, mother,” Charles supplied for her, the woman nodding slowly, before picking up her glass and taking a drink from it. She drained it in one mouthful, moving to pour herself another. She poured a glass for Charles as well, handing it to him.

“So you are eighteen. A full man, now,” Sharon spoke, contemplative. There was a little twinkle in her eye that was so rarely there. “Almost nineteen, then.”

“Yes, soon,” Charles said, Sharon smiling a little more now.

“What wonderful news. Kitty tells me that you’re a tutor, at Ironfield Hall. I am not familiar with the family there, they are a bit far from our region,” Sharon said, settling down onto a chaise lounge.

“Yes, the house’s master is a Mr Lehnsherr,” Charles said, Sharon humming.

“Only a Mr Lehnsherr? No wife, no family?”

“None that I know of,” Charles said, and Sharon cocked her head to the side, before reaching out to touch her fingers to the crest of her son’s hair. The touch was short and brief, but it had been far more affection that anything she had given Charles for most of his life, and Charles’s heart swelled and ached, almost full to bursting.

“And are you happy there, with this Mr Lehnsherr with no family?” Sharon asked, eyes appraising. Charles swallowed, nodding slowly.

“Yes. He is a good man, and his other subordinates treat me well. I consider them good friends, and maybe with a little more time, I can see them as family.”

Sharon smiled a little more at that, sobriety piercing through like a lightning bolt, before the clouds drifted in again.

“That is good, my son, and it is good for you to visit me here. I will be off to the countryside cottage immediately after the funeral, and it is a fair journey from here.”

 _‘I’m not sure if you will visit me again,’_ was left unsaid, but the two Xaviers seemed to hear it loud and clear.

“Carriages are swift these days, mother,” Charles offered, the woman letting out a short laugh.

“Yes, they are. How times have changed.”

***

Like Sharon, Charles left the moment Kurt Marko was lowered into the ground, not wanting to linger any longer than necessary. It had been one week since he had left Ironfield to return to Westchester, and even though a week was not a long stretch of time by any means, it left Charles feeling antsy and desperate to return to Ironfield, which was now home to him.

Like eight years ago, Kitty packed Charles’s belongings, slipping a packet of sweet biscuits and an extra set of socks into his case. Like before, Charles kissed on the cheek before they parted ways.

Now that Westchester belonged to a new master that bore neither the Xavier nor Marko name, it was only natural for most of the staff to be let go and find new employment. Kitty was not too upset about that; she held no lingering ties to the estate now that both Sharon and Charles were no longer affiliated with it, and it was not difficult for her and her husband to find employment elsewhere.

The journey back to Ironfield did not feel like it took as long as the trip Charles endured to leave it. It was like there was a string tying Charles to Ironfield, pulling him closer with a warped sense of gravity. He could hear the call of the estate in his head, always urging him to come back home. Charles believed that even if he were on another continent, on the other side of the globe, he would still be able to hear that call.

It was daylight when Charles arrived back at Ironfield, and he had leapt off the carriage prematurely, wanting to walk the last stretch himself. His suitcase was light as he walked along the side of the road, fingers brushing past the soft flowers and bushes that lined it, blossoming bright in the springtime.

It was when Charles reached the outermost field surrounding Ironfield that he saw a lone figure sitting atop a stone barrier; brown hair that looked copper in the sunlight, ginger scruff and piercing pale blue-grey eyes. The man had forgone a coat, and was simply wearing a familiar checked brown waistcoat and expertly tailored trousers, feet enclosed by polished brown boots.

Charles found himself smiling giddily when the man looked up and saw him, immediately hopping down from where he was perched on the stone. The man slapped at some dust on his trousers, bounding over to Charles with a few strides on his long, lean legs.

“You’re back,” Erik said, rushing into Charles’s space, filling up Charles’s horizon and heart. “You said you’d be gone a week, or two. You kept your word.” There was a slight mischievousness to Erik’s shark-like grin now, and Charles swore that he heard the words _‘bastard of a step-father must have died quickly, good riddance’._

“Of course I came back. You still owe me wages,” Charles said, Erik’s face softening minutely, bringing his hand up to straighten Charles’s neck tie that had gone askew from when he jumped out of the carriage in a flurry. Erik’s fingers brushed his chin a little, an intimate touch that Charles pretended was accidental.

“I’ll pay your wages after a game of chess. It’s no fun when I’ve paid you to let me win,” Erik said, Charles laughing, shoving Erik’s shoulder playfully, the older man’s eyes lighting up. The two of them made their way back to the mansion together, smiling and teasing, both so obviously happy that Charles had returned.

“I am glad to be back, Erik. Thank you,” Charles said, bearing his heart a little. Erik smiled, nudging at Charles’s wrist and leading him to the drawing room, a chess set already sitting there and waiting to be used.

Charles’s heart lurched. Erik did not know when Charles would be back, so if the chess set was already set up, it meant that he was also waiting and preparing for Charles to return to his side.

Charles rubbed at his aching chest as he sat down in his usual chair, and letting himself forget, just for a brief moment, that Erik was not promised to wed Miss Emma Frost. Right now, in this room, Charles indulged his fantasies and let himself think that it was only him and Erik that existed, everything outside of this room rendered obsolete.


	6. Chapter 6

“It is so very odd.”

Charles looked as Moira as the woman drummed her fingers on the table. Moira crinkled her nose, taking a bite of the sweet cake on her plate and washing it down with a sip of fresh tea. She then pursed her lips thoughtfully before looking at Charles.

“What is your opinion on the topic, Charles?”

“On what?” Charles asked, marking some of Peter’s English work with a pencil with one hand, taking a sip of his tea with the other.

“On Mr Lehnsherr and Miss Frost,” Moira supplied, Charles coughing and choking on his tea, spitting a little onto Peter’s work book. Moira clicked her tongue, throwing him a napkin, which he used to dab at the book and along his chin.

“What about them?” Charles asked, voice squeaky and not because he almost choked on Darjeeling.

“Well, it has been almost a month since Miss Frost and her party returned home, but Mr Lehnsherr hasn’t gone to visit her at all in that time. It is only natural after courting for him to propose, but he has not even seen her since! It is not a long trip by horseback, and the master is a skilled rider. So, as I said, it is very, _very_ odd.”

“Is it for sure that Erik intends to propose to Miss Frost?” Charles asked, pain twanging in his seemingly hollow chest cavity. Moira, as always, looked a little startled every time Charles called the master by his first name, but she was slowly getting used to it. The first time, Charles thought he had to go and mount a horse and ride to fetch Dr Hank McCoy. Now, Moira just gave him a funny look every time he did it, but otherwise pretended she didn’t hear anything.

It was not like people didn’t know that Erik and Charles got along well, even if they sometimes heard what sounded like a heated argument coming from the drawing room over a chess game, the two men often drinking whisky as they played and debating politics. They were used to Erik’s occasional bouts of rage, but Charles was usually such a serene being, that hearing him deliver a biting retort against someone like Erik with equal vitriol was startling, and potentially even more terrifying. Hearing Charles raise his voice was scarier than the shark-like grin Erik would shoot at Charles whenever the tutor said something amusing.

Erik did not treat Charles like he treated other subordinates, and it was obvious that their master favoured the young tutor quite a bit. Everyone that worked at Ironfield thought that Charles was extremely charming, and he was always apt at making conversation, but they didn’t think that the Charles Xavier charm would have worked on the seemingly impervious Mr Erik Lehnsherr.

It clearly had, though, and people were all the happier for it. Charles seemed to temper Mr Lehnsherr’s sour moods, and Alex had even taken to calling upon Charles to appease Erik whenever he noticed the master’s mood declining. Charles was always able to divert Erik’s mood over a game of chess or with a walk around the estate, sometimes even making the master forget his anger by playing a horrible rendition of a Liszt piece on the piano.

Even if Charles was not able to soothe Lehnsherr’s fury every time, he was the only one that could withstand the brunt of it without crumbling into tears. Alex had asked him how someone so small and soft like him could brave it, and Charles would just give him a lopsided smile, saying either “I’m tougher than I look” or “Erik is just impassioned, but not scary”.

So, Moira often asked Charles about their master now, knowing that if anyone knew what was going on in Lehnsherr’s labyrinth of a mind, it would be him. Unfortunately, Charles looked as stumped as Moira, the older woman sighing.

“I understand that you are young, and don’t really know the ways of courting,” Moira said, stuffing another morsel of cake into her mouth. “But a man does not pay attention to a woman like that without having the intention to propose. They looked quite taken with each other during their last few days here, and Miss Frost was even spending time with the staff, like Scott. If a woman of high birth like her takes the time to ingratiate themselves with the help, then it is obvious that they are planning to take over the household.”

“I see,” Charles said, voice tight. Charles had begun to indulge himself too much in his feelings for Erik, beginning to read too fancifully into the lingering touches and heated gazes the older man showered him with. From Erik’s tale about Magda, and how he had taken numerous other lovers on his travels, and now with Miss Frost, Charles knew that Erik’s tastes were not… like his own. Erik was not unnatural, and what Charles hoped were touches meaning something more were likely just how Erik treated a close friend.

Charles knew Erik did not have many friends, if any at all. He did seem taken with Miss Frost, but apart from her, Charles was really the only one Erik seemed to let his neck tie down for. Charles treasured that, but now with Erik’s engagement drawing nearer, Charles realised that he couldn’t go on like this any longer.

Charles had to find a new situation, which meant that he had to leave Ironfield Hall and everything contained within it. The thought filled Charles with a heavy feeling of emptiness, but he knew it was what he should do; once Erik was married, he and his wife would need to send Peter to school, and Charles’s presence would be rendered useless. Charles would rather leave on his own two feet before he was forced out by Erik and his new, beautiful and rich wife.

“I need to find a new situation, then,” Charles said, Moira’s eyes growing downcast. The woman reached across the table to rest her hand atop Charles’s, patting it tenderly.

“It saddens me to hear you say that, but I understand. I’m sure the master will find you a good situation. We will all miss you when you leave, though. Especially little Peter, he’s grown quite attached. Hopefully you can find something close by, it would be a shame if you were sent away to somwhere distant, like Ireland.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Charles sighed, getting up from his chair. “Is Erik in his study? I should discuss these things with him ahead of time.”

“Yes, he was there last I checked,” Moira replied, Charles kissing her cheek before heading upstairs to look for Erik. Charles knocked on his door twice, but the movement garnered no response from within, and when Charles opened the door it was confirmed to be devoid of human presence.

Charles searched the drawing room, and came up empty as well. The tutor walked the now-familiar halls, until he looked out the window and saw Erik strolling through the back gardens.

Charles quickly headed down that way, legs moving swiftly in case Erik decided to disappear to another corner of the large estate, and was relieved to find him still there, observing some bloomed pink flowers.

“Erik,” Charles called out breathily, the older man turning with a smile on his face, one that was growing more permanent by the day.

“Charles,” Erik returned, turning to face him fully. “Did you run here from town? Your cheeks are bright red and you’re struggling to catch your breath.” Erik’s tone was slightly teasing, knowing full well that Charles was not nearly as physically fit as Erik, the scholar just rolling his eyes as he slapped his chest to get some more air in.

“I need to discuss some things with you,” Charles said, Erik raising a brow, a movement that endeared Charles more every time. ‘ _Christ, stop, Charles. Do not fall for him more now that you are exerting your independent will to leave him.’_

“About what?” Erik asked, gesturing towards the large open field speckled with a few grand trees a little further off Erik’s property, an invitation to venture there. Charles and Erik walked, Erik standing close to Charles like always, arms brushing. Charles coughed, side-stepping a little, causing Erik’s brow to crinkle.

“You are to be engaged soon, so I need to seek a new situation,” Charles explained, Erik’s head snapping to look at him as they walked, the grass soft and rustling under their boots. Charles pointedly kept his eyes trained ahead of him, noticing how the clouds were beginning to drift in, the late afternoon air growing a little muggy.

“And where did you hear that from?” Erik asked, Charles exhaling loudly.

“Everyone, and it is obvious that you intend to propose soon,” Charles countered calmly, shrugging. “Moira says that it will happen any day now.”

“And you trust Moira to know about my intentions? About my heart?” Erik asked, Charles giving the taller man a slightly frustrated look.

“I don’t need Moira to tell me, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen the way you and Miss Frost look at each other, and even if I was blind, I would still be able to see that you two are an excellent match,” Charles said hotly, Erik regarding him silently. Charles filled the silence quickly. “Look. I have very much enjoyed my time here, and very much love Ironfield. I love the friendships I have with Moira and the others, and I love teaching Peter. And I love-”

“And?” Erik pressed, the two of them stopping to stand beneath a large oak tree, whose trunk was circled by an old and worn wooden bench.

“ _And_ , since you are to be married, I need to find employment elsewhere. You will send Peter off to school, and with no pupil there is no reason for me to stay here,” Charles said, Erik scoffing.

“I can think of plenty of reasons for you to remain here,” Erik said, Charles rolling his eyes.

“Erik, I thought you knew me. I… I love being here, but I cannot sit idle with nothing to do. I want to teach children, to educate them so that they can go forth in the world on their own two feet. So, I cannot stay here once you marry. _I_ _will not_. If you are unwilling to help me find a new situation, then I will advertise myself.”

Charles turned his nose up and spun around, aiming to head back to the mansion. Charles was only able to take two steps before his arm was seized by Erik, who whirled him around forcefully. Charles opened his mouth to utter a slew of rude words at his soon-to-be-ex-employer, but any noise building in his throat was cut off when Erik sealed his mouth over Charles’s.

Charles gasped into the touch, hard and possessive, Erik’s lips rough and all-consuming. His hands tightened around Charles’s biceps, the tutor’s hands flying out to grip the front of Erik’s waistcoat in a bid to not fall to his knees.

Charles was frozen into place, Erik groaning as he tilted his head a little more to slot their mouths together more tightly, and Charles whimpered. Erik’s tongue ran along Charles’s plump and berry-red lower lip, before sliding in and tangling with Charles’s, tasting him.

“Ngh- Erik- What are you-” Charles gasped, growing a mind to gently push at Erik’s chest, their mouths pulling apart with a slick smack. Erik’s chest was rising and falling heavily, but nowhere near as much as Charles’s, whose breaths shook as his cheeks were painted red with heat.

“Stay here. If you don’t find any other reason to stay, I will give you one,” Erik murmured, nudging Charles’s nose with his.

“But… You’re marrying _Emma_. You- We can’t do this, Erik. This is wrong. We’re both men, and- Oh, _God help me_. What do I-” Charles stammered, blue eyes growing impossibly wide, frantic. Erik just growled, moving his hands from Charles’s arms to cup his face, pressing his forehead against the younger man’s.

“No, Charles. Do _not_ tell me that this is wrong. You are my equal and my likeness, I’ve known it from the moment I first beheld you. It’s you that I want, you infuriating, intelligent, singular man,” Erik said, voice rough and dripping with passion, Charles’s legs wilting as he whimpered, leaning into Erik’s embrace.

“You… You _can’t_. You’re not like me, Erik. You can’t… mock me like this. You love women, you’ve told me so yourself. I’m not… I’m not going to be some mistress that you lock away in a tower while you have dinner with your wife! Do you think, because I am poor and little, that because I am a man, I am soulless and heartless? I am not a machine without feelings! I have as much soul as you, and full as much heart, and just because I am unnatural it does not mean that I don't deserve to be loved, fully and completely. I deserve that, just as much as any one!” Charles cried out.

Erik groaned and clunked his forehead against Charles’s again, thumbs stroking Charles’s cheeks, which grew damp with desperate tears.

“Charles, I offer you my heart, my soul. I love you, fully and completely. Please grant me the honour of having you by my side,” Erik said, kissing Charles again, softer this time, but no less passionate. Charles sobbed as he slid his arms from Erik’s chest to wind them around the man’s neck, rising up onto his toes to kiss Erik back with abandon. Erik seemed to sigh into Charles’s returned embrace, wrapping his own arms around the younger man’s soft waist, drawing him closer.

“You love me?” Charles asked against Erik’s mouth, the older man chuckling, pulling back to look into Charles’s eyes, which shone with tears and glimmered like the ocean at dawn. Erik thought he was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and Charles gazed up at his Erik with overflowing adoration.

“Fully and completely,” Erik repeated, Charles letting out a choked laugh and pulling Erik back down to kiss him again, giving in to the blissful feeling of Erik’s lips against his.

“I love you,” Charles whispered to Erik when they finally pulled apart, burying his head into the crook of Erik’s neck, breathing him in deeply.

As they held each other, there was a crackle of thunder, rain beginning to pour down from the heavens. Charles and Erik looked up at the sky, rain pattering against their faces, before looking back at each other and laughing, sharing another kiss under the rain.

“Let’s go back inside, _liebling_ ,” Erik murmured, Charles’s heart stuttering at the endearment. They kissed for a moment longer, before linking their hands and running back through the field. Charles didn’t care that the rain was soaking through his threadbare coat, nor that the mud from the field was caking his fraying boots. Charles didn’t care about anything apart from the man beside him, the heat radiating from their joined hands overcoming the chill of the rain.

The two men were giggling like schoolboys by the time they made it back to Ironfield Hall, stepping under the outer covering and shaking their wet clothes uselessly, soaked to the bone. Charles laughed as Erik ran his fingers through his hair, and he was sure his own was plastered unattractively across his forehead, but Erik looked at him like he was the most radiant being he had ever laid eyes upon, and Charles had to kiss him again.

Erik leaned hungrily into Charles’s touch, their mouths moving in synchronisation like their lips were made to slot together. Charles groaned when Erik’s hands gripped at his back and his hips, digging through his soaked layers and warming him up.

Erik crowded Charles against the heavy wooden door to the mansion, Charles laughing as Erik grudgingly fumbled behind Charles to unlock the door but unwilling to pull his lips off Charles. Erik kissed Charles like a drowning man and Charles was air, while Charles kissed Erik with equal need in return, a man in a desert while Erik was his oasis.

The two of them stumbled inside once Erik finally unlatched the door, the tutor and the master trying to stifle their giggles as the ran upstairs, tracking a trail of rainwater and mud behind them. They passed by Charles’s room first, and when Charles turned to open it, Erik murmured a brief ‘no, bed is too small,’ before tugging Charles’s arm further down the hall.

Erik took Charles to his own chambers, which had been relocated after the fire incident, and closed the door behind the two of them. They were both breathing heavily, Charles standing in the centre of the room, water droplets dangling on the fringes of his wet hair and already looking dishevelled.

Erik made his way towards his lover from his position by the door, leaning down now to kiss him slowly, and a little chastely.

“I’ve been dreaming of this for so long,” Erik said gently, cupping Charles’s shoulders, before sliding his hands down until they held Charles’s wrists. “I looked everywhere for you abroad. I went to Germany, to France, to the Americas, but never found you. And then, when I thought I was truly alone, I found you here, waiting for me.”

“You’re not alone,” Charles said, letting Erik guide his hands so they rested on his chest, over his beating heart. “Not anymore.”

The two kissed again, for what seemed like both the first time and the millionth time. As they kissed, Erik untied Charles’s neck tie, discarding it onto the ground as Charles did the same for him.

Hands fumbled between them, not wanting to move apart but needing space to undo the buttons of their waistcoats, which soon fell to the floor beside their ties. Trousers pooled at their feet, and when Charles was only in his shirt he walked backwards until the backs of his thighs hit Erik’s tall bed. The older man reached down to grasp him under his legs, hoisting him up effortlessly, Charles’s shirt rucking up to reveal pale, untouched thighs.

Erik hovered above Charles, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his neck, before removing the last piece of clothing from the beautiful man beneath him. Erik touched Charles like he was the most precious thing he has ever held before, and so gently that Charles might as well have been made of glass.

They held each other for the first time that night, and when Charles fell asleep curled up in Erik’s arms, the older man leant down and pressed a kiss to the crown of his hair, praying to God to let him keep Charles by his side for the rest of his life.

***

Charles and Erik did not part from each other’s side from that moment on. They woke in Erik’s bed every morning, bodies satisfyingly sore while rolling around naked under the sheets until either one of their stomachs rumbled, and even then, they would lay there tangled in each other’s arms until both of them grew unbearably famished.

Charles began taking all of his meals with Erik, much to Moira’s surprise. Charles felt awkward asking her to serve them their meals, and began to take it upon himself to carry two dishes on a silver tray to share with Erik wherever they wanted. Sometimes they dined in the drawing room while finishing up a game of chess, other times they ate at the table in the back gardens. Most of the time, though, they ate in Erik’s grand dining room. Erik usually ate there alone, and being the lone diner at a table fitting 15 was a solitary and lonely affair. Once Charles joined him, however, all of Erik’s meals were filled with talk and laughter, and the occasional rub of an ankle discreetly beneath the table.

Moira had pulled Charles aside a week after the sudden change in their dynamic. The woman had frantically asked Charles about what was wrong with Mr Lehnsherr, and had somehow deduced in her confused mind that Erik and Miss Frost’s engagement had fallen through, and now he was trying to diminish his loneliness by spending time with his only friend. Charles had fallen into hysterics and assured Moira that that was not the case, but the woman had not relented.

Charles and Erik were not particularly discreet, though they refrained from kissing each other or touching too intimately in front of others. But when you live amongst people for so long, they are bound to notice things, like how Charles’s room never had a fire going any more, or that there was the sound of chatter emanating from Mr Lehnsherr’s chambers long into the night after the candlelight has darkened.

The person who found out first was Scott, though that was understandable, for a reason Charles was still trying to wrap his head around.

_“You lied to me,” Charles seethed, tears collecting in his eyes. It had been a week since Charles and Erik had consummated their secret relationship, and it was far too soon for it to all come crashing down._

_“What are you talking about, Charles?” Erik asked, shoulders stiff as Charles thrust a finger out the window._

_“You told me that you weren’t marrying Emma Frost! You promised me that you… that you loved me, and now you’re inviting her to our home? Without telling me?”_

_Erik looked at Charles, blinking twice, before he burst out laughing. Erik slapped the surface of his desk as he laughed wildly, the sudden noise startling even Charles._

_“You’ve misunderstood, Charles. Emma is not here for me,” Erik said, smirking a little as he got up from his chair. “Come, let me show you.”_

_Erik joined Charles by the large window behind his desk, pressing a large hand to the small of Charles’s back. Emma sat on a brilliant white steed in her matching white riding uniform, somehow devoid of dirt specks despite having ridden from her neighbouring estate. Charles had not seen her since before he left for Westchester, but she was still as radiant as ever._

_“I don’t understand what you are showing me, Erik,” Charles grumbled, turning to his lover with downcast eyes._

_“Just watch, Charles,” Erik said, smiling down at the younger man, who narrowed his eyes at him but turned back to the scene below. Erik’s hand rubbed gentle circles at Charles’s back, a deep swell of affection building inside him as he looked at his intelligent but sometimes short-sighted lover._

_Charles continued to look down as Scott appeared from behind a pillar, Emma lightly hopping down from her horse when she saw him. Scott grabbed onto the horse’s reins as always, Emma saying something to him, Scott smiling in response. And then, in a movement that was far too practised to have been novel, Scott leaned forward to kiss Emma square on the mouth, the woman returning the touch by cupping Scott’s cheek with a white-gloved hand._

_“What in the dickens?!” Charles exclaimed, eyes wide as Erik started laughing again. Apparently, the noise could be heard from outside, because both Emma and Scott looked up. Scott looked embarrassed, but Emma just smiled, waving up at the two men._

_The other couple soon joined Charles and Erik in the study, Scott more scandalised about being caught smooching by his employer and friend than the fact that those same two individuals were also smooching in their spare time._

Of course, once Scott knew, his brother Alex was also informed. He, too, did not care – apparently, he once had a relationship with a man called Armando in the past, but that was tragically cut short when the man passed from consumption years ago.

Unfortunately, word spreads like wildfire amongst servants; once the Summers knew, Angel too found out and was overly supportive of Charles and Erik, just glad that someone could now permanently temper Erik’s foul moods. Lorna was also unbothered, because Peter was always easier to look after when he was in a good mood, and being chastised by Erik when he was angry always dulled Peter’s own temperament. Charles did not know how Anna-Marie felt about it, but on the rare occasion that he saw her, she would give him a small smile that looked like it held a secret, one that made the hairs on Charles’s neck stand up.

Moira was the last to find out, and only realised it when she had walked in on Erik leaning down to peck Charles on the lips one evening. She had screamed, and the rest of the help and run in frantically, only to find Moira a blushing mess and Charles burying his face into Erik’s chest, mortified. Erik just grinned at them all smugly with his shark-like smile, sending them all scuttling off.

Moira didn’t mention it to Charles again, but she would give him worried looks when she thought he wasn’t looking. Charles, for the most part, ignored it – the response from the household was, for the most part, overwhelmingly positive, and that was more than Charles could ever ask for. Amongst these people that he considered family, he never felt like an _‘unnatural child’_ or wrong. He just felt like Charles, a man who happened to love Erik.

Charles still felt giddy when he remembered that Erik loved him back.

Now, Charles and Erik sat in the undercover stone pavilion in a corner of the estate, shadowed from the sun and view of the servants. Charles sat on a stone bench, Erik lying across its remaining length with his head resting on Charles’s rounded thighs.

Charles held a small book in his hands, reading it out to Erik in his dulcet voice, the older man’s eyes closed while his mouth was sloped upwards in a relaxed smile.

 _“Misery and degradation and death and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you of your own will did it,”_ Charles read, holding the book with one hand while the other carded through Erik’s hair. _“I have not broken your heart – you have broken it, and in breaking it you have broken mine.”_

“Heathcliff is an idiot,” Erik huffed, Charles closing the book with an amused grin. They had been working their way through Emily Brontë’s _Wuthering Heights_ , and Erik often piped up with grievances about the characters, which Charles found amusing yet annoying at alternating times.

“Why? I find it rather romantic for him to believe that their love is so strong that they would only be parted if one of them willed it, that there is no power in the universe that could break them apart unless they wished it,” Charles said, placing the book down on the bench beside him, now focusing on the man reclining on his lap. Erik just snorted, rolling his eyes.

“It is not romantic, it is foolish. He just won’t get it through his thick skull that Cathy may have had a legitimate reason for leaving him,” Erik explained, Charles raising a brow.

“What do you think is a legitimate reason for someone to leave the one they love?” Charles asked, Erik pondering for a moment, turning his gaze away from Charles.

“Opposing ideals, maybe. Or having the same ideals, but not being able to agree on how to achieve them,” Erik said, Charles chuckling.

“Then maybe I should leave you. We hardly agree about politics, Erik.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Erik said, Charles smiling as he leaned down to press his mouth to Erik’s, the angle awkward with how they’re sitting but the touch pleasant nonetheless. When Charles was about to pull back, Erik let out a disgruntled noise and hooked his arm over Charles’s neck, tugging him back down.

Their lip lock was broken when Charles could no longer contain his giggles, Erik huffing and rolling over so his cheek pressed against Charles’s thigh now.

“What’s another valid reason for someone to leave?” Charles asked again, stroking his fingers through Erik’s hair, his lover exhaling a long breath.

“Maybe if they found out the person they loved withheld something from them, something damning,” Erik said, his voice still and quiet.

“But if they love each other, they wouldn’t withhold anything important from each other, would they? The deceiver must not love the other person very much,” Charles said, Erik shaking his head before turning it to lean into Charles’s thigh, hand squeezing his knee tightly.

“That doesn’t mean they don’t love them. Maybe they just don’t know how to say something. But they love them. They really do love them,” Erik repeated, and Charles felt him press a kiss to his thigh, sighing warmly.

“Mm, if you say so. Do you want me to read more to you now?”

“No,” Erik murmured quietly, eyes closing. “I just want to stay like this, for a while.”

***

“Charles, really?” Erik said, glaring at the shorter man, who only smiled back at him sweetly.

“Peter needs new clothes too. It is only practical for him to accompany us,” Charles responded, holding Peter’s hand as the little boy clambered into the carriage. Charles stood on one side of the door, and Erik on the other, the two of them staring at each other. While Charles just smiled languidly, Erik’s eyes were hot and his mouth was set into a hard line, an expression intimidating to everyone but Charles.

“You are my torturer, Charles,” Erik eventually muttered, deflating as Charles just laughed, climbing into the carriage to sit beside Peter, making Erik glare at him again. Erik stomped his way into the carriage, sitting on the side opposite to Charles and the little beast. Once Scott kicked the carriage into motion, Erik grinned and reached forward to pull on Charles’s arm, the young man yelping as he matched the lurch in the carriage to fall onto the seat beside Erik.

“Erik! Peter is right there,” Charles hissed as Erik held him close to his side in the confines of the carriage. Erik looked at Peter, who was too busy staring out the window at the fields and buildings whizzing past them to even care.

“Peter,” Erik called, the boy turning to him quickly. “If you count the number of buildings that we pass correctly from here until town, I will buy you two new suits instead of one.”

Peter’s eyes gleamed, the boy nodding enthusiastically before turning his eyes back outside with newfound focus, his fingers tapping on the carriage walls as he counted.

“You are impossible,” Charles huffed, but the smile on his face tempered the frustration in his voice.

“You love that about me, especially now that I can just lean down and…” Erik said, leaning down to kiss Charles’s mouth, not too passionately since Peter was in the carriage, but daring enough.

Charles rolled his eyes but gave in to the feel of Erik’s kisses, hungry for them even after indulging in them for the past three weeks.

The rest of the carriage ride went quickly, Peter eventually blurting out a number that Charles and Erik were sure wasn’t correct, but said it was fine any way. Peter beamed, skipping into the tailor’s and beginning to run his fingers through the soft display fabrics and making awed sounds at all the different colours.

The tailor saw Erik, immediately recognising him as the wealthy but stony Mr Lehnsherr from Ironfield Hall, and quickly coming to service him. The man was shocked when Mr Lehnsherr wanted to order five whole new suits for the man that accompanied him.

When the tailor looked at Charles, he was surprised to see that the boyishly attractive man was wearing a terribly old and ill-fitting suit. The tailor wondered why someone of Mr Lehnsherr’s station and reputation was buying so many expensive suits for someone that looked every inch a servant, but did not dwell on it too much when Mr Lehnsherr was paying him such a weighty sum for his work.

Erik ended up ordering six suits for Charles; three day suits and three evening suits, all of varying colours. He even bought Charles three more neck ties, leather gloves and a soft scarf, knowing Charles got cold easily.

Charles thought that would be it, but Erik then dragged him and Peter into a shoemaker’s store, order three pairs of dress shoes and boots.

Mr Lehnsherr paid an extra sum to have the items made up as quickly as possible, the tailor and shoemaker pushing aside other orders to get Mr Lehnsherr’s done. It was not very often that the man bought so many things, and it was even more surprising that it was for someone else. Clearly, that meant this was an important job, and the workers used it as an opportunity to advertise their services to such upper-class gentleman.

It was two weeks later that a carriage laden with boxes of new clothes and shoes arrived at Ironfield Hall, and Charles’s barely-used chambers was converted into a wardrobe. His new clothes covered the untouched bedding, and was draped over the armchair and desk in the corner.

“This is too much, Erik,” Charles complained, Erik watching him fondly as he sat in the middle of a pile of clothes that Erik had forced him to try on, thoroughly enjoying seeing Charles dress up in fine things that were worthy of him. He also thoroughly enjoyed seeing Charles take those fine things _off_ , eventually growing tired of watching him dress and undress and ravaging him amongst the pile of new clothes instead.

That was the first time the two of them slept in Charles’s bed, much smaller than the one in Erik’s chambers, but allowing them a convenient excuse to press tightly together as they slumbered.

***

It was a few days later, after Moira had helped Charles reorganise the mess of clothes that required a new closet to fit into, that Charles retired to bed alone. Erik had been caught up with business, and sent Charles to retire first, the young man having dozed off multiple times as he curled up in the armchair in Erik’s office while the master worked.

Charles did not mind sleeping alone, though he did prefer it when Erik was beside him. Blowing out the candle on the bedside table, Charles lay on his side of the bed, back facing the centre. He had already been half asleep by the time he crawled upstairs and into bed since it was late into the evening now, and drifted off into sleep easily.

Charles’s dream that night was oddly dark, however. It began with Charles standing outside the gate of Ironfield, which was closed and barred with twisted metal, like a goliath had gripped it in his hands and bent it around and around the metal slats.

Behind the gate stood Erik and Emma, hands clasped together. Emma was dressed in white like always, but what was different was that her face was obscured by a gaudy lace veil that sparkled with diamonds.

 _‘No_!’ Charles tried to cry out, but for some reason no sound came out. Charles clawed at his throat and screamed and screamed, but Erik and Emma could not hear him. Charles watched in horror when Erik smiled at the woman in the wedding gown, lifting her veil before closing his pale eyes, then leaning in to kiss his wife on her plush lips.

The scene of the dream changed suddenly, Charles’s body pulled backwards with a phantom force from where he gripped the bars of the Ironfield gate. Charles was plunged into a room full of red, his body small and the faces of Cain and Kurt Marko grinning down at him. Charles screamed again, and like before, no sound fell from his lips as Kurt took off his belt and looped it in his hand, while Cain held a book dripping with blood in his meaty fingers.

Kurt and Cain raised their arms at the same time. When Charles expected the blow to collide with him, an orange light flashed behind his shut eyes, and Charles gasped in surprise.

At the sound of his voice, Charles opened his eyes and found that his vision was blurry, having teared up during his fitful nightmare. He blinked, the strange orange glow of his dream carrying into reality as a candle’s flame flickered dangerously close to his eyes. Charles froze, eyes widening as the candle floated close to him, and he raised his hand instinctively to shield himself from the bright glow.

A candle did not float on its own, though, and Charles visualised a ghost-like figure swathed in a tattered white night gown. The ghost had long, matted blonde hair that cascaded down its back in clumps, and it hunched over itself like its bones were made of liquid. It was a woman, the shape beneath the gown curvaceous in a way a man could not be, but before Charles’s eyes could adjust to the flame’s light it disappeared in a flash, plunging Charles into darkness.

The change in lighting disoriented Charles, and he blinked and rubbed at his face before he heard the sound of cloth tearing, punctuated by the feral noise of growls and grunts. Charles’s heart thumped erratically in his chest as the ghost-like figure tore up the new clothes Charles had worn that day, which he had left hanging on the back of Erik’s desk chair before he went to bed.

 _‘The Ghost of Ironfield Hall,’_ Charles thought to himself, afraid. He kept still, the ghost not seeming to be bothered with him and just angry at the brand-new clothes, which were mere tatters on the floor. The ghost held a knife that looked sharp yet worn, the metal glinting under the moonlight as it slashed through the fabric. Charles observed in still terror as the ghost looked at him again, wearing a face that was not Angels, nor Moira’s, nor Lorna’s, and not even Anna-Marie’s. The ghost wore an unfamiliar face that would have been beautiful if it did not twist in a way that was inhuman.

The human and the ghost stared at each other, the phantom-like woman smiling with deranged abandon, before scuttling out of the bedroom with a terrifying cackle. It was the same laugh that Charles heard the night of the fire, and it struck him in his core.

Charles was too afraid to get out of bed immediately, in case the ghost was still there, lingering in the halls. When he was sure that the laughter had tapered off a long while ago, Charles leapt out of bed and wrapped a thick blanket around his shoulders, the only thing that could cover him that had not been torn to shreds.

Charles did not care that he only wore his night shirt and a blanket as he raced downstairs, almost tripping on the cloth wrapped around him.

Light still flickered from beneath the door to Erik’s study, and Charles did not knock as he barged in. Erik jumped slightly, looking like he was about to bark out an angered yell at whoever disturbed him so rudely, but when he saw Charles in such frantic, panicked state, the master jumped up with concern.

“ _Liebling_ , what happened?” Erik asked hurriedly, Charles throwing himself against Erik, shaking like a leaf. Erik swore under his breath, wrapping his arms around his Charles, kissing his head as he murmured “ _Du bist sicher_ , _Liebling_. You are safe. Tell me what scared you. I’m here, you’re not alone.”

“The ghost,” Charles shuddered out as he buried his face into Erik’s chest. “I saw the ghost.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason I added the 'Poor Charles' tag :')  
> But also, poor Erik, tbh

“At first I thought it was Anna-Marie,” Charles said, the vivid image of the ghost’s face seared into his mind. “But I saw her face, Erik. It was not her. It was a woman that I had never seen before.”

“You must have been half in dream, Charles,” Erik said, smoothing down the young man’s hair as he sat trembling in Erik’s lap, head buried in the crook of Erik’s neck. The two of them had returned to Erik’s bedchambers, Charles having shown him the tattered and ripped clothes that were no more than a pile of scraps now. Erik’s face had darkened, before he grabbed the torn fragments and thrown them into a box, hiding them from sight.

They now sat on Erik’s bed, the master still dressed in his shirt and pants, while Charles had been given Erik’s discarded coat. Charles held the garment tightly around his slighter frame, breathing in the comforting scent of his partner.

“I was not dreaming,” Charles replied adamantly, Erik sighing.

“But who else could it have been? If it was not Moira, Angel or Lorna, then who else besides Anna-Marie?”

“ _Erik_ , I know what I saw. It was a woman that bore none of their faces, but I had heard her voice before. That _laugh_. It’s haunting. Erik, why are you not more concerned? I am sure she was the same one that set your bed aflame all those weeks ago!”

“Charles, it’s just not possible,” Erik said, fingers stilling as they threaded through Charles’s hair, tickling the nape of his neck. “You were frightened and half asleep, and your nerves were already frazzled from your nightmare. It is not uncommon to see things. I told you before that Anna-Marie is… a singular type of person. She drinks, heavily, and that makes her do erratic things at times. This was one such occasion. No one was hurt, and I will reprimand her in the morning.”

Even though he did not converse with Anna-Marie as much as the others, she did not strike Charles as an alcoholic. Charles was very familiar with the type, considering his own mother was always drowning at the bottom of a bottle.

“Erik-”

“Charles, please rest, you’re shaking and cold, and I worry,” Erik murmured, pulling back to kiss Charles’s forehead and lips, helping lower the man into the bed. Charles did not take off Erik’s coat, finding it comforting even if it swamped him in size, and Erik smiled down at the sight of his Charles bundled up in his clothes.

Erik pushing Charles’s floppy brown hair back from his cherubic face, the young man looking up at him, still a touch frightened but comforted by the feeling of Erik beside him.

“Stay,” Charles whispered, Erik nodding, not needing to be told twice. He settled himself in the bed beside Charles, gathering the smaller man into his arms and wrapping himself around him like he could protect him from all of the horrors of the world.

In Erik’s arms, Charles was no longer scared of ghosts or phantoms or shadows. He wasn’t afraid of Kurt and Cain Marko and the Red Room, and he wasn’t afraid of Erik being kept away from him behind a locked iron gate, in the arms of someone else.

Before he drifted off, Charles thought about what Heathcliff said, about love being unbreakable by anything other than the will of those in love. Maybe it was foolish, like Erik said, but Charles couldn’t help but find the notion beautiful. For Charles, there was a string tightly knotted under his left ribs, which was similarly knotted to a similar string in Erik. They were bound, and the string would not snap unless one strayed too far, leaving the other behind.

Apart from that, nothing else could cut the string that bound the two of them; not ghosts, nor subordinates, nor potential wives. Charles thought that nothing could come between them, because Erik was his likeness, as he was Erik’s.

But Charles was young, and naïve, and too new to love.

And he was wrong. So very, very wrong.

***

The appearance of the ghost did nudge at Charles’s mind every now and then, but Erik had assured him that it was nothing for him to worry about, and it was easy to feel comfort and security in Erik’s confidence. Charles did not forget about it, but he did not let his thoughts linger on it any further.

A handful of days passed, Ironfield Hall running in happy contentment. Emma had returned back home after spending a few days with Scott, who had proposed the day before she departed. That was a joyous day of celebration, though Scott was wary that Emma’s family would not approve. They did not, but Emma could not care less, taking inspiration from Erik who, too, loved Charles without a thought about anything or anyone else.

Everyone was gathered in the back garden _that_ day. The day when the ground beneath Charles’s feet gave way, the floorboards built on lies and secrets finally crumbling down.

Charles was laughing as he watched Peter run around, swinging a large butterfly net around his blonde head. The child swatted at the buzzing insects Charles had asked him to catch with youthful glee, burning off his endlessly abundant energy with enthusiasm. They were going to learn about native insects, and there was no better way for an active learner like Peter to learn about them than catching them on his own.

Erik sat on a garden chair with a drink in his hand, watching the blue-eyed man smile warmly at the young boy, his eyes lighting up and his sinfully red lips pulling upwards to reveal straight, white teeth. Erik could watch the way Charles’s face transformed with every smile forever, each one becoming more radiant than the last.

Charles bent down to match Peter’s height as they transferred an insect Peter caught into a glass jar, sealing it with some thin fabric and twine. Charles held the insect to the sun, Peter peering at it curiously. Charles told him a few things about the insect, before handing the jar back to Peter so he could sketch it in his notebook, the boy skipping over to Moira to show her what he caught before he went to do his homework.

While Peter was occupied, Charles walked back to Erik, the man standing up and pressing his mouth to Charles’s casually. In a house filled with people who knew about their relationship and accepted them without prejudice or judgement, Charles was feeling more and more comfortable to show his feelings, even if he sometimes caught Alex and Angel smirking at him from the sidelines.

“How long will the little beast be occupied for?” Erik asked, looping his arm around Charles’s waist, the tutor making a show of looking at his pocket watch.

“Not long enough for you to do what you’re thinking about,” Charles replied cheekily, Erik’s hand beginning to migrate south like the birds Charles taught Peter about the week prior. Charles gave Erik a look, reaching back to relocate Erik’s hand a bit higher again, reminding him that they were outdoors, in full view of everyone.

“It’s just them,” Erik huffed, leaning in to kiss Charles. “If they are bothered, I can just increase their wages. There’s not much people won’t suffer through for a salary.”

“You’re terrible,” Charles laughed, eyes fluttering closed to enjoy Erik’s touch, but was suddenly stopped when a gruff, accusatory voice rang across the garden - a voice that was familiar, but not one from any member of the household.

“Adulterer!” the masculine voice rang out, Erik stiffening as Charles turned to the source of the disruption, confusion flooding through him. The man who spoke approached roughly, taking large, angered strides, arms swinging so harshly that his hands slapped the plants lining the garden path, the flower petals falling into the dark dirt.

When the man neared, Charles recognised him instantly; it was Mr Victor Creed. The man looked vastly different from how he did the last time Charles cast eyes on him, pallid and bleeding as he was hauled into a carriage at the break of dawn. Charles remembered his face clearly, having pressed his hands to the man’s gaping wound and wiped away the sweat on his brow for nearly an hour that memorable night.

Now, Creed was stalking over to Erik and Charles, the younger man immediately aware of how they were standing, jumping from Erik’s grasp.

“Erik, what is he doing here?” Charles asked, turning to his lover frantically, but finding that Erik was not looking at him. Before Charles could say anything more, Erik had walked towards Creed, his mouth pulled back in a snarl that showed too many teeth, grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt.

“Creed,” Erik seethed, the man looking him in the eye with equal animosity. “How dare you storm into my home and-”

“How dare _I_?” Creed laughed, the sound dry and grating, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Erik Lehnsherr. _Brother-in-law_. You cannot begin to preach to me about my wrongdoings, not when you have sinned so heavily that your soul is bound straight for Hell.”

 _‘Brother-in-law?’_ Charles thought, his mind latching onto that phrase more than anything else that spilled from Creed’s mouth. Erik seemed to notice how Charles stopped breathing, a guttural noise escaping from his throat.

“Quiet, you bastard. Don’t you _dare-_ ” Erik growled, tightening his grip around Creed’s neck, the man only grinning at the way Erik’s arms shook with the amount of force he was exerting, unfazed. Creed’s eyes only tore themselves from Erik, moving to Charles who stood behind him, confused and fearful.

“I bet you don’t know, do you, boy? About how this man has cheated you. Lied to you. Deceived you,” Creed sneered, grabbing onto Erik’s wrists and wrenching them down, pushing Erik’s chest roughly. Creed rubbed his bruised neck before rolling his head, bones cracking.

Erik pushed Creed back again, eyes afire, before he walked back to Charles and desperately grabbed his hand to pull him away. Charles stumbled as Erik pulled on him roughly, but dug his heels in, his hand wrenched from Erik’s tight grasp at the surprising movement.

 _‘Something is not right,’_ Charles’s senses screamed, that slightly unsettled feeling he had been ignoring flaring in his mind. Charles stepped back, away from Erik, footing uneven.

Erik turned to look back at Charles, eyes wide and pleading, more desperate than anything Charles had seen from the man before. Creed grinned wider as he watched Charles’s gaze flicker apprehensively between himself and Lehnsherr, and Creed knew that the little fish had taken the bait.

“Charles, please. Don’t listen to him. He is delirious, you’ve seen it. Come with me,” Erik pleaded, holding his hand out for Charles to take. Charles’s arm twitched in habit, too used to not thinking twice before taking Erik’s hand, to fall into his arms.

“Still feeding him lies, brother? Even now. Your name is Charles Xavier, is it not? Well, _Charles_ , you tended to my wounds all those weeks ago. The good Dr McCoy said that if you hadn’t cleaned my wound and stemmed the bleeding, it would have festered and left me either bed-ridden or dead. You saved my life, so it’s only fitting for me to save yours from this defrauding wretch,” Creed said, stepping forward now, a new confidence in his gait when he saw Charles hesitate to take his lover’s hand.

“Charles, _please_ ,” Erik said again, Charles finding his voice.

“What is he talking about, Erik?” Charles asked, voice too shaky, too unsure. Erik opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out, like he was unable to say the words. Charles’s face twisted in pain when all Erik managed to say was “Please, Charles. I will explain. Just come with me, now.”

_Misery and degradation and death and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you of your own will did it._

“Erik, what are you not telling me?” Charles whispered, feeling Creed waltz up to them, Erik moving to assault the man again. Charles stepped between them, pressing a hand to Erik’s chest, the man stilling immediately at the unmoving wall that was Charles Xavier, so small and yet so resolute. “Erik, don’t.”

Turning to Creed, Charles tried to keep his voice even as he ordered the intruder to speak, the man doing so with an ease that was in direct contrast to Erik. He pulled out a piece of paper, a legal document with two signatures scrawled at the bottom.

_Marriage License – Mr E Lehnsherr, Miss C Creed_

“Mr Erik Lehnsherr was married 15 years ago to my sister, Clara Creed, now Mrs Clara Lehnsherr, in Spanish Town, Jamaica,” Creed said slowly, each word deafening in Charles’s ears.

_What._

“Charles, Charles, it is not all as he says. I can explain everything to you, please, just come inside with me,” Erik said, but his words were muffled as Charles’s mind kept repeating Creed’s words, over and over.

“The truth of it is, Charles, is that Lehnsherr has not been honest with you. You are young, and thus easy to deceive. Lehnsherr is not a good man – he married my sister and betrayed her by committing adultery. He has led you into a life of sodomy, and caused you to sin on his behalf. Charles, _that_ is the real Erik Lehnsherr!” Creed bellowed, Erik growing pale as Charles finally turned to look at him, eyes wet with tears.

_I have not broken your heart – you have broken it, and in breaking it you have broken mine._

“Please tell me he is lying, Erik,” Charles said, stepping back when Erik moved towards him, arm outstretched. Erik gritted his teeth, eyes tormented, before casting his eyes towards the western building, tilting up to the top floor. That was where Erik had taken him that night, when Mason had been bleeding on the chaise. The rattling noise behind the tapestry, the laughing, the ghost.

The ghost.

“Oh, God,” Charles gasped, stumbling back, head dizzy and throbbing. “The ghost. The fire. The blood. You knew, the entire time. Your _wife_. Your wife is the ghost, the one in the tower. The one who attacked Creed, who set your bed on fire, who tore my clothes to shreds with a knife. You told me it was nothing, that it was just Anna-Marie. You… You knew the truth, all along. And you deceived me. Oh, God. I can’t- I…”

Charles covered his mouth, suddenly feeling sick. He didn’t know what to believe as he tore past Creed and Erik, one of them smiling, the other one awash with devastation and guilt.

If Erik was calling Charles’s name as he ran, Charles did not hear it.

He couldn’t hear much at all over the screaming inside his head.

***

Charles locked himself in his room for the rest of the day. Night had descended swiftly, but Charles had not strayed from where he had dropped himself on the edge of his bed, body still and silent. The events of earlier in the day replayed over and over in his head.

Erik had a wife. He’s been married for 15 years, to the ghost – the _woman_ – that lives in the western tower. Erik knew it, but he had lied.

Charles looked down at his body now, wearing the clothes Erik had bought for him. They suddenly looked ghastly covering Charles’s body, and he quickly stood from the bed, breaths stunted as he hastily pulled off the garments, pushing them to the ground and stepping away from them like they burned his flesh.

Charles rummaged around his wardrobe, reaching into the back to pull out his old clothes, the ones that he carried with him all the way from Graymalkin School, and pulled them on. They scratched at his skin, and the mismatched patch at the elbow was frayed and falling apart, and Charles thought _‘this is just like me’._

It had been hours since Charles ate, missing tea and supper, not even drinking any water. Charles was feeling light headed, and knew that if he did not consume anything, he would collapse. Charles almost wanted to let himself get to that state, to fall into unconsciousness, because at least in his sleep he could run away from the tumultuous feelings running amok in his chest.

But Charles did not do that. He clung to the only rational part of himself left, and lit a candle, before opening the door of his chambers for the first time that night.

From his left, there was a sudden noise and a rush of movement, Charles too weak to jump at the shock.

“Charles,” Erik said quickly, pulling himself clunkily off the floor, where he had apparently been lying. The candle he held was nearing the end of its wick; Erik must have been lying there in wait for Charles for a long time, waiting for his lover to venture out from his self-imprisonment. Charles knew that Erik could have unlocked the door with the key only he and Moira had, but the fact that he did not meant that, even though he had lied to and deceived Charles to his face, he at least held a grain of respect for the young man.

How big that grain was, however, Charles did not know.

Charles didn’t seem to know anything, not any more. The rug had been pulled out from under his feet, and now he was falling into an abyss, a pit that was so dark that the bottom was unable to be seen. Charles could only hope that when he hit the bottom, it would not shatter his bones.

“I don’t want to do this now, Erik,” Charles said, voice thin and frail, a little breathless. Charles swayed on his feet, and let out a pained noise as he leaned on the wall for support. Erik immediately rushed forward, gathering Charles into his arms, one under Charles’s back and the other hooking behind his knees.

Erik held Charles close to his chest as he carried him to the drawing room, placing Charles down into an arm chair and quickly pouring him a glass of water. Charles took it, dizzy and sick, gulping it down and wetting his chapped lips.

“Speak to me, Charles,” Erik said, using the same words he had that night a few days after they had met. Things had been so different at that time; the words, back then, had been intriguing to Charles, but now they only filled him with anguish and heartbreak.

“I don’t think that there is anything left to talk about,” Charles responded simply as Erik fell to his knees. The older man bent so he could look up into Charles’s eyes, which were trained down at the carpet. Erik tentatively placed his hands on Charles’s knees, the young man sucking in a tight breath and shifting, Erik’s hands sliding off uselessly.

“Charles, please. Let me explain,” Erik whispered, Charles remaining silent, a pillar that Erik could not topple nor climb. Swallowing, Erik began to speak, whether it was an explanation, a plea or a defence, Charles wasn’t completely certain.

“I was 20-years-old, not much older than you. My father, Jakob, had just died, and my family was almost destitute. It did not matter that we had once been wealthy; my father had made one wrong deal with the wrong man, and we all paid the price for it. Edie, my mother, was desperate to save our family, and arranged a marriage for me. It seemed too good to be true, but we didn’t know it back then. All we knew was what the Creeds had presented to us; Miss Clara Creed, Victor’s younger sister, whose wealthy father had provided her with a sizeable dowry.”

“I was young, and foolish. Creed had set things up so that I would fall for his beautiful, younger sister, blinded by her dowry. He preyed on my mother’s desire to pull our family out of financial ruin. I married her, only seeing the good while Creed hid all the bad.”

“It was not evident at first. Clara was beautiful and charismatic, and was somehow everything I had been looking for. But it was after we married that the symptoms that Creed had hidden began to manifest, and fester until it overtook her. She became mad, and what you saw that night – the ghost, you said – was only a fraction of her derangement. She is violent, feral – you saw it yourself, how she mauled her own brother. Charles, I was defrauded by Creed into marrying his mad sister, a woman that no one would have married if they had not been blinded.”

“Once her madness was known, I could have let her die. _Gott_ knows I had many opportunities. I have a second house, a little further into the countryside. It is not as well maintained as Ironfield, and I could have left her there, where the inclement weather would have finished her off, and no one would have blamed me for it. I could have, but I am no monster. I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“So, I kept her here, in Ironfield, where I pay Anna-Marie a weighty sum to care for her. But, Anna-Marie is only human, and Clara is mad every hour of the day, and even more under the moonlight. The night of the fire, and when she broke into your chambers, Anna had dozed off, letting Clara able to unlatch the locks on her room and wander around our halls.”

“Charles, you have to understand – this was a mistake I made 15 years ago, one I am still paying for today. One that I am paying for now, with you,” Erik said, voice wavering now, his pale eyes blinking rapidly as they heated. Erik’s eyes have not shed tears since his mother’s death which occurred only a few mere months after he married, but now, they burned full of them.

“Charles, _liebling_. I deceived you, and I was wrong. I made another mistake, but only because I was afraid I would lose you. I… I haven’t lost you, have I?”

Charles did not respond, and Erik let out a choked noise, clutching at Charles’s face which remained impassive. Charles’s soul felt empty, his body a vessel carrying fractured pieces of a man that happened to love someone named Erik Lehnsherr.

“Charles, _Gott_ , please don’t,” Erik pleaded, pressing his forehead against Charles’s, like he was trying to get inside his mind, to show him directly the depth of his love, regret and desire to make amends, in whatever way Charles wanted. “I need you, Charles. Don’t break my heart, please. I love you. Fully and completely. Only you.”

Charles laced his fingers together in his lap, trying to still their shaking as he spoke.

 _“_ I have not broken your heart, Erik,” Charles spoke, voice even and still, like he was reading from a script. And he was, in the end. They were the words taken directly out of ‘ _Wuthering Heights_ ’, ones that he and Erik had laughed over as they lay together in the gardens. Neither of them laughed now. “You have broken it, and in breaking it you have broken mine.”

Charles stood then, Erik sliding down, his arms scrabbling to grip onto Charles’s chest, waist, legs. But Charles was a pillar, a statue made of stone, and Erik could not get at him, no matter how hard he tried.

“I am tired, my friend,” Charles said slowly, Erik flinching at the familiar phrase. “I am tired, and need to rest. And…” Charles said, breathing out shakily. “I am sorry.”

With that, Charles stepped out of Erik’s hold on him, not letting his legs turn back no matter how much his shattered heart yearned to return to Erik’s side, still so very much in love with him.

Charles forced himself to return to his room, the string under his left rib tugging harshly, and Charles let himself cry once he had locked the door behind him, burying himself under his blankets and sobbing like he was ten-years-old and alone in the Red Room.

But even then, his tears hadn’t hurt so much.

***

Charles slept for three hours, but after that point, his body simply gave up trying. It was barely daybreak, and by then, Charles had pulled all of his belongings into his worn suitcase, leaving the five sets of new suits hanging in pristine condition in his wardrobe.

Ironfield Hall was deathly quiet; Moira and the others had witnessed the implosion in the gardens when the truth had come to light. Alex, who had no idea about his employer’s secret wife, could no longer look at Erik any more after knowing what he had done to Charles. Angel was more sympathetic, feeling pity for Erik rather than hatred. Lorna was too busy trying to soothe a distraught Peter, who had said something along the lines of “ _Meine V_ _äter k_ _ämpfen.”_ Anna-Marie felt guilty for not keeping a closer eye on her charge, Clara Creed, and felt like she was partially responsible for the mess; she had liked Charles, even though they had not spoken much. She knew that she was not sociable, but even when Charles was apprehensive about her, he was still polite and smiled when he walked past her in the halls. She also knew Erik’s pain, having been the one assigned to watch over his mad wife.

Moira held the most complex feelings; she had been the sole subordinate who knew about the existence of Clara Creed apart from Anna-Marie. Moira had known, but had pushed away her misgivings about Erik finding a new lover. She knew that Erik, even though he pretended to have a hard and cold front, was dealt a heavy blow in his youth and yearned for nothing more than to make a house and home with someone he loved.

She knew that the reason Erik used to stay away from Ironfield for months and years at a time was because he couldn’t bear the pain of returning to a house that was also a prison for a wife he did not love. She knew that he roamed France, Germany and America in an almost desperate search to find someone that would love him for who he was; not for his title or money or a sick plot to cast off an insane sister to someone that was too kind of heart to kill her and rid themselves of the burden.

Every time Erik had returned home, he had grown colder and more bitter, unable to find that person that would love him wholeheartedly, and that he would love back in equal measure. He would always end up returning alone to the house that he abhorred.

Until Charles.

Charles had changed everything, not only for Erik, but everyone living in the house. He had breathed new life into it, transforming it from a prison into a sanctuary, where everyone felt safe and included. He turned it into a place that Erik never wanted to leave, if only because Charles was there.

But everyone had seen the fallout, and now the illusion Charles had cast over Ironfield Hall had been shattered by Creed and the truth. The subordinates knew better than to disturb the silence now, and they walked on eggshells, staying in their chambers and kneeling at their bedside to pray for things to work out.

Charles did not pray; instead, he packed, and opened the window of his bed room. White curtains billowed out, dancing around him as he looked down. It was a decent drop from the second storey window, but beneath him was plush grass, which would hopefully soften his fall.

Charles could not stay here, in a house where Erik’s wife was being kept in a tower room. In a house with _Erik_ , who had kept the truth hidden from him, when he had more than one opportunity to unearth it. Charles wasn’t sure if he would have reacted any better if Erik had told him before, but he wanted to believe that he would have. It wouldn’t have been such a betrayal if Erik had been the one to tell him, and not Creed.

But that wasn’t what had happened, and Charles had to go. He needed to get away and clear his mind, and maybe, even his heart.

Charles dropped his luggage down first, the case making a heavy thud against the grass. Charles closed his eyes in a silent prayer, before bundling himself up in his cloak, and letting himself drop.

Charles landed hard on his legs, grunting in pain as he landed poorly. His left leg throbbed, but it was not so bad that he could not run. Charles grabbed his suitcase, and hobbled with pain across the back fields towards the road, forcing himself to not turn back around. If Charles saw the house again, if he even caught a glimpse of Erik’s face, he knew he would not be able to leave.

Charles kept running, the morning chilly and the distant ocean winds slapping his red-cheeked face. The tutor – _ex_ -tutor – clutched at the meagre amount of money he had in his hands; a few pounds and a dismal amount of shillings, remainders from his journey to Westchester months ago. Remainders from the ten-pound note Erik had given him, along with the promise to return back for the other five pounds he was owed.

Charles never got those five pounds.

Charles used the money to pay for a coach to go anywhere but here. The coachman just looked at him with pity, wondering what happened to this poor, young boy who seemed so desperate to escape from _something_. Life was hard in the era they were in, and the coachman was not one to pry – everyone had their own tale of woe.

The coachman took Charles as far as he could according to the amount of money Charles had given him, extending his good graces to take Charles one stop further. Charles thanked him, and had taken his luggage with him before the carriage rolled away into the distance.

Charles now stood in the middle of a crossroad, surrounded by acres and acres of green and brown fields punctuated by rocks and dirt. Charles did not know where he was, and he let out a sob, collapsing onto his knees.

As he cried, he imagined, for a brief moment, someone calling his name.

_‘Charles.’_

The voice calling it sounded broken, but muted by distance. He heard his name one more time, the phantom-like sound carried by the wind, before it grew silent again.

Charles laughed to himself, tears streaming down his face, and wondered if he was going mad.

***

Charles did not know how much time had passed; his left leg now throbbed, having carried him across the Moors despite being injured, and he was sure if he removed his boot his ankle and calf would be black and blue.

His stomach was empty and his face bitten raw by the cold winds. He was dehydrated, but had collapsed beside a little pool of rainwater held in a concave rock; the water could be tainted, but Charles was desperate, and scooped up the water in his dirtied hands and swallowed it down so quickly he choked.

That must have been hours ago now, because the sun was beginning to set, and he was nearing the end of his tether.

Under the orange and red glow of the sunset, Charles let his legs carry him as far as they could go, but the Moors were a vast land and no matter which direction Charles turned, he could not see anything beyond the dirt, bush and rock. He laughed dryly, a croaking, fractured sound, before finally taking his last step.

Charles fell with a haze over his mind into the dirt, using the last of his energy to roll himself onto his back. He stared up into the waning sun, which began to glow blonde, and Charles blinked sleepily. Everything was quiet, peacefully so, and Charles thought that, _‘ah, a peaceful death I’ve been granted. God’s small mercies’._

Charles blinked, and for a second, the blonde sun turned into a slope of blonde hair, golden and fair. Charles did not have the energy to rub at his eyes, wondering if he was delusional, but the hair soon connected to a face, one that he had only seen in his dreams for eight years.

“Raven,” Charles whispered, his sister looming over him, face unchanged. Raven was still beautiful, and in Charles’s dying mind, she looked vibrant and alive, and smiled down at him gently. “Am I dying?”

“Yes, you idiot,” Raven said, laughing a little as she kneeled beside him, pulling Charles’s head into her child’s lap. Charles breathed out a laugh, his lungs rattling. “You’re dying, but you’re not going to die. Not yet. It’s too early for you, brother. You still have so much more to do.”

“What is the point now?” Charles rasped, turning his head to the right to look at Raven, her image becoming blurrier, fading into the horizon. “Raven, tell me, what am I supposed to do now?”

“You’re the genius, brother,” Raven said, her face blurring as the sun dipped below the hills. “You can figure that out on your own.”

“Raven,” Charles called out, though his voice was scratchy, weak. “Raven, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me again, please, wait for me. Raven-”

Charles’s consciousness began fading, but not before he felt his body begin to float. Warmth surrounded him, along with the scent of earth and firewood, a gritty and coarse voice muttering something into his ear that sounded like-

“What the Hell are you doing lying and dying here, bub? And who the fuck is Raven?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: chapter features period-typical racism, use of racist terms (which in no way reflects my views!!)

When Charles woke up, he was in a room that he did not recognise. The walls were made of light panelled wood, and a window directly opposite from where Charles lay was open slightly, letting a sunlight-warmed breeze drift through. There was a fireplace to his right, but there were only ashes sitting there, untouched. There were a few framed paintings on the walls, hung a little askew but depicting landscapes filled with trees and oceans.

Charles blinked, his eyelids like lead, and he struggled to sit up. He groaned as his body ached all over, and he did not have the strength to sit.

“Oh, he’s awake! He’s awake! Jean! He’s awake!” a hushed, relieved voice chatted quickly, and Charles felt a warm pressure slip into his left hand. The voice was female, and spoke quickly and excitedly.

“Sir? Sir, are you awake?” a second voice called out, also female – Jean, the other voice had called her. This voice was less energetic than the other one, and its gentleness made Charles settle, the voice coaxing him to relax. _‘You are safe,’_ it seemed to tell him, the hand around his squeezing.

Charles groaned again, blinking as he craned his stiff neck to look around the room a little more. As he took in his surroundings in more detail, he finally laid eyes on the two women that were speaking to him. They were both young, around Charles’s age or slightly younger. One was a pretty dark-skinned girl with pale hair left out in wild ringlets that mimicked either clouds or a blizzard, and she was smiling at him with giddy excitement. The other had blue eyes and vibrant red hair that was styled neatly in a bun, loops of hair tucking under her ear. Her eyes gazed down at him with a slight frown, concern etched into her features. They were both beautiful in different ways, wearing simple but clean day dresses, and their auras told Charles that they did not mean him any harm.

When Charles did not respond because of his raw throat, Jean helped him take some sips from a glass of water, the liquid sliding addictively down his parched throat.

“Thank you. Yes, I- Where am I?” Charles asked after swallowing gratefully, bringing his right hand up to his forehead to try and rub away the ache building there. Charles’s voice was still rough, like someone had taken a hot poker to his throat and charred his windpipe. His lips were also chapped and flaky, and no longer bore their natural red flush, and his complexion was pallid. Dark circles wrapped around his eyes, and an untamed scruff was beginning to grow across his chin, making him lose his boyish charm. 

“You are at Eden House,” Jean told him, voice soft as she reached behind him to help sit him up, stuffing a few more pillows behind his back to help him. “I am Jean Grey, and this is my sister, Ororo.”

The white-haired girl smiled brighter at her name, leaning forward to touch Charles’s hand.

“What’s your name, Sir? We’ve been trying to guess it for the past few days. Logan found a book in your luggage, and it had the initials C.X. written inside. So, we’ve just been calling you Mr X,” Ororo said, voice spirited.

Jean gave her sister a look, chastising her silently, and Ororo sunk back into her chair, a little embarrassed. Charles managed to laugh, though the action made his throat ache.

Charles thought about it for a moment. His head was foggy and fractured, and he couldn’t seem to get a good grasp on his memories. Some images flashed through his mind like disjointed pictures; a large house with a Red Room, a grey-coloured school, a tomb stone, teaching a little boy arithmetic with jam dripping down his chin, and a severe-looking man with pale blue eyes. That same man whispered ‘ _Charles’_ in his mind, and the last image made Charles’s heart squeeze, but he couldn’t match the emotion to a coherent thought or distinct memory. Charles, panicking a little, found that he could not even remember his name – only hearing the whispered voice call out ‘Charles’, but he did not know if that was truly his name or a memory of someone else.

“I… I’m sorry, but I can’t remember,” Charles admitted, looking at Jean with wide eyes. The woman seemed to understand, squeezing his hand again. “You said I had a book initialled C.X. with me? I can’t seem to remember things fully, but my name may have been ‘Charles’. I am not completely certain, though. I apologise.”

“Do not be sorry,” Jean reassured him, smiling a little. “It is understandable, your body has been through quite a shock. Do you remember anything else, though? Anything at all?”

The image of the stoic blue-eyed man flashed in his mind again and made Charles hurt, and he did not know why.

“Again, I am not sure,” Charles said, voice glum. He gestured to his head, hand shaking a little. “It’s like… It’s like it’s broken. Everything is all mixed up, torn into pieces. I see images, but it is like there is no context to them. I... I think I was a teacher, though.”

“That is a start,” Jean said, Ororo bouncing on her chair again, gripping her skirts.

“Then instead of Mr X, we should call you Professor X!” Ororo said, Jean giving her another look, but dropping it when Charles laughed again at the girl’s antics, not minding them in the slightest. She looked like she was a genuinely bright girl, reminding him of someone he felt like he knew long ago, someone he loved like a sister, perhaps.

“Professor does not really ring a bell, but I do not mind the title,” Charles said, Ororo beaming and Jean giving Charles an apologetic but grateful look. “But, if I may ask, how did I get here? Maybe my memories will come back to me if I can remember the past few days.”

“My sister and I don’t know all of the details, since it was our brother, Logan, who found you collapsed on the Moors. That was three days ago now. You’ve been unconscious since.”

Charles regarded the two women, nodding, the movement making his head throb again. Charles sucked in a breath as he winced, Jean frowning further.

“We don’t know what happened to you, but we suspect that you had been wandering the Moors for at least two days prior. Logan said you were chilled to the bone when he found you, crying out for someone called Raven. Is that name familiar to you? A wife? Sister, perhaps?”

Raven. _Raven!_

A few broken fragments slotted together then, and Charles – yes, his name was Charles – recalled the time he spent at one Graymalkin School for Children with Raven. His sister.

“Raven,” Charles voiced aloud, smiling a little now, just uttering the name of his sister giving him strength. “Yes, Raven. She is my sister, I remember her.”

Jean and Ororo looked elated for Charles, taking the returning memory as a good sign.

“Do you remember where she lives? If we can locate her, she will know where you are from,” Jean said, taking out a notepad and pencil, but stopping when Charles shook his head. His smile turned more wistful, and he softly pat Jean’s wrist, pencil stilling.

“No, that… That would not help. She passed, when she was a child,” Charles said, Ororo looking sad, while Jean creased her brow again.

“You were calling out for her when Logan found you. You must love her immensely,” Jean said, and Charles nodded, Raven’s smiling face flashing before him.

“Yes, I did. I do. Much like how I can see that you two sisters love each other,” Charles said, Jean and Ororo looking at other and sharing a smile.

“It is not often that people so easily accept that we are siblings. It is obvious that we come from different mothers, but we have grown up together. Other people, even those in town that have known us since our infancy, don’t often accept that so easily, so your reaction is refreshing,” Jean said, Charles shrugging.

“Raven and I did not share parents either, so I understand. Our bond went beyond blood. Love… _Love is more than blood.”_

Charles has said that before, he _knew_ it. He had said it, in a place smelling of fresh air and flowers. He had been standing on a staircase, _‘yes I can see it now’_ , and he had been talking to someone. _‘Who was I talking to?’_

Jean tilted her head inquisitively, like she could hear the wheels turning in Charles’s mind. Seeing that Charles was withdrawing again, Jean pat his wrist.

“I think that it might be best to let you rest your mind, now. You have begun to remember a few things, and that is a good start. Trying to force more memories to surface may overwhelm you,” Jean said, Charles nodding in agreement. “Good. You must be famished, you haven’t eaten a proper meal since you came here. Why don’t we have some tea first, and then figure things out later?”

“Thank you,” Charles said, heart warm and full with the generous kindness the sisters had lavished upon him. He was a stranger to them, someone that could have been a vagrant wandering the streets, but they had taken him in and nursed him back to consciousness, and even worried over him. Charles owed them his life. “Truly. You… You saved my life. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Jean laughed, shaking her head as she got up from her chair, smoothing her dress with her dainty palms.

“Sharing a meal with us over light conversation would be a start,” Jean responded, patting Ororo’s shoulder to get her to stand, too. “You can rest here, _Professor_. You injured your ankle on the Moors, so you should not get out of bed yet. Ororo and I will go and prepare your meal, and we will share it with you in here.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, hoping that the simple words carried his genuine gratitude towards the girls, both of them smiling at him. Ororo quickly rushed over to a stool on the other side of the room, where a familiar suitcase rested upon it. She pulled out a novel, pages worn and a little battered, passing it to Charles.

“You might become bored while you wait. You had this book with you, so I assume you like it,” Ororo said, before she and Jean left the bed room, leaving Charles to his silence.

Charles looked down at the book, running his fingers over the embossed title – _‘Wuthering Heights’_. Charles found the string denoting the page he was supposedly on, opening the book.

 _“Misery and degradation and death and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you of your own will did it,”_ Charles read aloud, his eyes suddenly filling with tears, a wave of emotion rolling over him like a tidal wave. Charles snapped the book shut, dropping his head against its spine and heaving out a shaky sob, muffling the noise into his fist.

 _‘Oh, God. I remember everything. Ironfield, Erik, fire, Peter, blood, Erik, chess, Moira, screaming, Erik’s wife.’_ Memories and images and nightmares all came back to Charles relentlessly, even as he tried to shield himself from the memories that attacked his fractured mind.

Memories that he wanted to forget again.

***

Jean noticed that Charles X – or Professor X, as she and Ororo teasingly called him – was quieter when they returned with his meal. Jean was not surprised, though. The man had been through an ordeal traumatic enough for him to lose his memories, and he still looked worse for wear. She had patched him up as best she could, and she would have called for the town doctor, but finances were thin as they were.

It wasn’t that they were completely destitute, they were just… tight on money. They were careful when they went to the market to buy groceries, and only lit a fire in one room of the house every night, the three masters of the house huddling in there until they crawled to their cool bed chambers to sleep. Jean and Ororo shared a room, while Logan had another, which was the one the Professor was currently residing in.

Even though they were low on funds, the three siblings weren’t cruel enough to leave someone to die on the Moors just because they wanted to save a few shillings. Jean was intelligent, and had run the numbers in her head; they could thin down the stew for a week, and Ororo could hold off on buying a new pair of shoes to replace her currently broken ones for another fortnight. Logan’s income as a carpenter was also steady, but in a parish as small as theirs there was not a lot of business. The two sisters would be starting their jobs as teachers in the new school in just under two months, so they just had to hold out until then.

The two sisters liked Charles as well, even though they had only spoken to him briefly when he had woken up. He was very polite and well-mannered, and it was obvious from the way he carried himself and his prose that he was educated. It was not likely that he was of noble birth, however, since his clothes were old and worn, and no nobleman would have been stuck out on the Moors like that.

The sisters also liked how the Professor did not question them when they said they were sisters. It was hard to find someone that was so accepting and understanding. Ororo had been abandoned on the streets as a baby, barely old enough to speak even a word, and Logan had taken her in. Ororo was the same age as Jean, and were much younger than their older brother, who sometimes acted more like their father.

“So, is it just the three of you living here in Eden House? No other family?” Charles asked as he slowly ate his stew. Jean had apologised for the thin taste, the food not rich in flavour due to having to water it down due to a lack of ingredients. Charles did not mind at all, since foods that were too rich would not have gone down well with his currently sensitive stomach, and the sisters were glad, even if they thought that he was just being polite.

“Yes, just the three of us. Logan and I are half siblings – we share the same mother. He is quite a bit older than I, just over thirteen years. My father married our mother after Logan’s father passed away. My mother was old when she had me, and died during childbirth. My father ended up abandoning us about five years after, running off with a younger lover to the Americas. We are not sad about it - Logan’s both a brother and a father to us, and the three of us are quite content as we are. Of course, we do love your added company too, Professor,” Jean explained as they finished up their meals, Charles cleaning his plate.

They put their dishes aside on a tray, Jean taking the time to inspect Charles’s wounds. After eating, the colour had returned to his face again somewhat, and he no longer looked like a pale ghost. There were still bags under his eyes and a weariness to his features, but he did not look like he would drop dead spontaneously. Jean was satisfied with that, and moved from his face to look at Charles’s ankle.

It was terribly swollen, and even when he rested it, Charles could feel it throbbing. There was no way he would be able to walk without a crutch until it healed, but the siblings did not have such a thing, so Charles feared that he would be bed-ridden for longer than he would like.

“We can see how your foot fares tomorrow. Maybe we could help you get to the drawing room, or even to the garden,” Jean said, drawing Charles’s thoughts from the frown on his face, perceptive as always.

“You can probably move around more once Logan is back. Our brother is strong and much larger than you, he would probably be able to carry you anywhere you’d like,” Ororo added, just as the sound of a door banging open shot through the small house. Jean rolled her eyes at the loud disturbance, Ororo jumping up happily. “Perfect timing! I’ll go and tell brother that Professor X is awake!”

Ororo rushed out, her skirts flying around her trim figure, and Jean sighed.

“I apologise. Ororo is excitable, and Logan… Well, he can be rough. For some reason, he thinks that he can destroy our front door whenever he pleases because he is a carpenter,” Jean said, Charles chuckling.

“It’s alright. He saved my life, I think his good traits far outweigh the bad ones,” Charles said, Jean smiling widely.

Soon enough, muffled voices could be heard from behind the closed door, which opened with another bang to reveal Ororo standing behind a tall, well-built man. He had wiry dark hair and a thick beard, and his shirt was rolled up to just below his elbows, which showed off muscles that were robust and bulging with veins. His skin was tanned, and face gruff, like he constantly smelled something that he displeased. He was handsome, in a wild, untamed sort of manner, and Charles couldn’t help but contrast him to Erik, who was all clean lines and fine waistcoats.

Charles wondered when his mind would stop doing that. Erik seemed to invade every thought, filling spaces he had no business being in. It was an unfortunate side effect of still being deeply and irrevocably in love with the man, even though his heart smarted with betrayal. Charles knew that he would never be able to forget Erik, or to stop loving him, even when he was far away and hidden across the Moors.

“You must be Mr Howlett. I am Charles – at least, I believe I am. Your sisters have taken to calling me Professor X, though,” Charles said amiably, holding out a small hand. Logan regarded the man – who, really, looked more like a bearded boy – and was surprised to see a hidden strength in his baby blue eyes and rounded cheeks. He looked a far cry away from the broken thing Logan had picked up on the Moors, and that was not a bad thing.

Logan grunted as he took Charles’s hand, noting that despite his frailness, the boy’s grip was steady.

“Just call me Logan, Mr Howlett is my father and it’s stuffy,” the man said, voice deep and guttural. “Professor is even stuffier, and Charles makes you sound like a pompous git. A more fitting name would be… _Chuck_.” Charles blinked at the nickname, which was probably making a mockery of his name, but only stirred up a sense of belonging within Charles.

Logan expected the young man to get offended at the lack of courtesy with the somewhat crude nickname, but instead of derision, their guest just laughed a smiled widely, the motion making the corners of his captivating eyes crinkle with mirth.

“I wouldn’t want to sound like a pompous git, even if it is my name, so Chuck it is.”

Logan let out a sound that was torn between a grunt and a laugh, not minding this Charles-Chuck-Professor man. He did steal his bed and sounded a little like a noble brat, but Jean and Ororo seemed to really like him, so his character must be alright. His sisters were young, but Logan had taught them to judge character well.

“How’s the leg?” Logan asked brusquely, looking at the bandaged foot that peeked out from beneath the blankets.

“Feels as wonderful as it looks,” Charles replied, the quirk of a smile on his lips, Logan grinning wolfishly. “And by wonderful, I mean it throbs and aches, but I will survive.”

“Have you tried walking on it yet?” Logan asked again, Charles shaking his head.

“I want to, but I’d probably stumble like a newborn calf if I tried.”

Moving closer to the bed, Logan pulled off the blankets abruptly and looped a strong arm under Charles’s, the young man yelping as he was hauled off the bed. Charles landed on his uninjured foot, dangling the bandaged one like it was a limp twig. He did not fall, though, since Logan was supporting most of his weight, his muscles barely straining since Charles was not heavy in the slightest.

“A little warning next time would be great!” Charles exclaimed, Logan laughing as Jean slapped his arm scoldingly.

“Sure, Chuck. Where do ya want to go?” Logan said, grinning down at the man pinned to his side. Charles smiled, pointing towards the garden. “Alrighty, then, Chuck. Let’s go.”

Charles giggled as he let Logan helped him walk – or hop and stumble – through the small house, the two of them bumping into walls since the narrow and short hallway was too small for two men to walk side by side, especially one that was currently a cripple. Still, they made it to the door to the back yard, where Jean had chased after them with one of Charles’s shoes, which was when he realised he was still barefoot.

The weather was pleasant when they made it outside, Logan helping Charles down into a rickety wooden chair, the man letting out a relieved sigh as he stretched his uninjured limbs out in the sunlight.

“Thank you, my friend. This is much better,” Charles said, glancing at Logan who took a seat on another chair beside Charles, sprawling over it comfortably. “You and your sisters have been far too kind to me, I’d like to know how I can repay you. I… don’t have much in the way of money, but… I can work. Maybe not manual labour, but I believe I was a teacher, once. Jean says that I might be able to find employment in the parish. She mentioned that a new school was opening, and that the parish was looking for a male teacher.”

“That’s right,” Logan said, voice short and crisp, but not offensively so – Charles had figured that the man was brusque and coarse by nature, and not on purpose.

“I understand that my presence here was… not planned. And I am a guest, and I am grateful, but as you’ve gathered I’ve nowhere else to go. I wouldn’t want to _impose_ , but if I could ask for your permission to be able to stay here, at least until I am healed and gain an income – which I would happily give to you to repay you for your help. I know that this is asking a lot, especially considering I am a stranger with no background, but-”

“You talk too much, Chuck,” Logan huffed, rolling his eyes as he pulled out a smoke, taking a long drag, smoke pluming from his flared nostrils. “You can stay here for as long as you want. But once your foot is healed, I’d like my bed back.”

“Oh, of course, my friend. Thank you, truly,” Charles gushed, taking Logan’s calloused and large hand in his, shaking it. “You are a saint.”

Logan let out a bark of laughter at that, not agreeing with the young man in the slightest, knowing that he is far from saintly. But Charles had a look in his eye that was filled with nothing but genuine gratitude and affection, making Logan grin back at him, not caring that the young man had stolen his bed at all.

***

A month passed quickly, and Charles had assimilated into the household seamlessly until the siblings could not remember a time that existed without Charles. He bonded with Jean and Ororo easily; Charles and Jean often read together, while Ororo taught Charles Spanish in their spare time, the young man returning the favour by tutoring her in German. Charles also became close to Logan as well, whose gruff and unapologetic character was easy to be around, even if most people thought him abrasive. Logan’s honesty and simple-minded nature comforted Charles, the young man having had enough of lies and falsehoods.

Charles’s foot had not healed as well as expected, even after almost a month. What they thought to have just been a sprain seemed to be much more sinister, and even after the swelling had subsided, Charles’s leg still spasmed with pain when he tried to walk on it. The pain was so significant that Logan had ended up calling upon the local doctor, who had said that though the original injury was minor, its poor management had turned it into something else. It had gotten infected, and the sores and toxins had damaged the nerves in his foot beyond repair.

Jean had blamed herself for the deterioration in Charles’s injury. She, of course, did not claim to have caused Charles’s initial injury, but believed that her tight handle on the purse strings a month ago had been a foolish decision. By hesitating to spend coin to let Charles see a doctor, she let him essentially lose the use of his left foot.

Charles did not blame her in the slightest, not when it was his emotional and idiotic decision to jump from a second-storey window and injure himself. He, too, hadn’t thought too much about his injury, figuring that it would heal with rest. Charles did not want Jean to blame herself, not when she had already done so much for him; even if Charles had lost the use of his foot, she and her siblings had saved his life. That was more valuable than the loss of use of one small appendage.

For the first two weeks, Charles could not get around the house without Logan offering himself as a crutch. Any time his foot shouldered even a little part of his weight, Charles would cry out from an intense pain that shot up his limbs, burning like he had been struck by lightning.

Part way through, Logan had grown tired of seeing Charles’s charming face scrunch up in agony every time he wanted to relieve himself. The hulking man gathered up some wooden scraps and metal bits and pieces, fashioning Charles a rudimentary wheelchair allowing him to get from the bedroom to the dining room and foyer, but it was still too difficult to manoeuvre anywhere else. The contraption was haphazardly put together using left-over materials, and even with Logan’s skill as a carpenter, he could only do so much. Still, Charles had been charmed by the contraption, and Logan was chuffed that it had been well received.

Though Charles had been charmed by Logan’s wheelchair, it was uncomfortable and limiting. Charles was only eighteen, almost nineteen, and suddenly being unable to walk pulled him into a bout of depression. Charles was usually jovial and positive by nature, but being confined to a chair had frustrated him, and he was stubborn to regain the use of his legs.

He knew that the siblings worried about him, but he would give them half-hearted smiles to ensure them that he was alright. Charles thought that the more he kept saying it, the more he would believe it. No one believed him, though, not when they could sometimes hear Charles muffle the sound of him crying late at night into his pillow.

One day, when Logan, Jean and Ororo had gone to town together to talk to the parish head about building some more school tables, Charles had taken it upon himself to try and practise walking. Whenever he tried to stand in their presence, Logan was always at his side to hold him, Jean and Ororo looking at him with poorly hidden concern.

Charles hated feeling like an invalid, or the way he was coddled like a toddler learning to walk for the first time. He knew that they were only concerned for him, but having Logan have to pick him up from the floor because the pain from his foot was so overwhelming chafed at Charles’s battered pride.

That day, Charles had wheeled himself into the foyer, positioning his chair at the end of the hallway. He used a little wooden door wedge to lock the rickety wheels in place, and pulled out the simple wooden walking stick he had tucked in his chair beside him.

Alone in the house, Charles licked his lips, hoisting himself onto his uninjured right foot. Like usual, his left foot hesitantly hovered over the ground, wrapped in bandages dipped in medicament that smelled bitter and wretched. Charles tentatively took a step forward on his left leg, letting out a pained cry as he stumbled back onto his right foot, the pain unbearable.

“Fuck,” Charles said through his teeth with a hiss, knuckles white as he gripped his walking stick. The sharp sting and lingering throb slowly began to wane like it did when Charles took the weight off the foot for a quarter hour. The pain eventually disappeared into its usual low-level thrum of discomfort, and Charles took a deep breath to try again, stubborn and unable to accept that he could not walk normally.

“Just one step,” Charles murmured to himself, biting on his lower lip. He moved his left foot forward, stepping down. He shifted his weight onto the foot, before letting out a choked scream, the pain just _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_. Charles collapsed onto the floor, his elbow hitting the wood and his walking stick clattering to the ground. Charles writhed and sobbed in agony and misery, clutching at his leg while tears dripped down to his chin.

Charles cried and drowned in the pain until his mind could no longer take it, falling into unconsciousness there on the floor.

The man remained unconscious for an unknown amount of time, because when the three siblings had returned from their trip to town, they had seen Charles collapsed onto the floor, silent and still with tears pooling under his head. Ororo had screamed and Jean had rushed forward, slapping his cheeks and calling out his name.

Charles stirred as she shook his shoulders, before Logan nudged Jean aside and picked up the smaller man, holding him close to his chest and bringing him back to Logan’s bed. After hijacking Logan’s bed for the first week of his stay with the siblings, Charles had vacated it, feeling guilty for forcing the much broader man to sleep on one of the small couches in the foyer. For all of Logan’s complaints about Charles taking up his bed, the moment Charles said that he was fit enough to leave it, Logan had glared at him and tried to get him to keep the bed, but Charles was stubborn.

For the first time in a short while, Charles woke up in Logan’s bed. The tutor did not fully regain consciousness until late in the night, waking up to Logan’s face cut sharply with the shadows from a single candle. The man’s face was obviously displeased as he stared down at Charles, unimpressed.

“Torturing and hurting yourself wasn’t the brightest idea you’ve had, Chuck,” Logan said angrily when he noticed Charles’s eyes blinking up at him. Charles snorted weakly, grimacing as he pulled himself up, Logan immediately moving to help him. Charles sent him a hard look, pushing away the man’s burly arms, shuffling up to a sitting position on his own.

“Don’t, Logan,” Charles said shortly, the older man huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. Charles groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, shame pricking his skin. “I apologise. That was unworthy of me, you’re only trying to help. I just…” Charles looked down at his legs, gesturing vaguely. The sight of his mangled foot made Charles angrily drop his head back, mouth a tight line and eyes hot.

“You’re angry,” Logan said unhelpfully, Charles clicking his tongue, giving Logan a tired look, only to find the man smiling a little, which made Charles even more annoyed. “That’s not bad, Chuck. You were always so calm about everything, with that empty little smile of yours. This is much better.”

“Me being angry is better?” Charles repeated incredulously, looking at Logan like he was mad.

“Better than looking defeated? Better than seeing you pretend to be alright when you’re suffering on the inside? Definitely,” Logan said, shrugging inelegantly. “For the first time in a while, you look _alive_ , Chuck. I think you’d forgotten that.”

Charles was silent as he gripped the hem of the blankets tightly. A few tears tasting like anger and anguish dripped onto the fabric, before Charles wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“You’re right,” Charles then said softly, followed by a huff of a laugh. “I’m angry at my bastard of a leg and being in bloody pain all the time. My darn body won’t even listen to me, the cursed little shit. It’s infuriating.” Charles tilted his head back to look at Logan, who was smiling widely at the smaller man, lips spread over his teeth with savage amusement. “Oh, you think this is hilarious, do you?”

“Not your injury, but you calling your own leg a bastard _is_ hilarious. And I never thought that the word ‘shit’ could ever come out of your little schoolboy mouth,” Logan said, Charles smirking.

“Just wait until you hear me say ‘fuck’ then,” Charles replied, Logan letting out a wild guffaw. “Blazes, I never would have said that before I came here. You’re an awful influence, Logan.”

“You don’t look too upset about that though, Chuck,” Logan said, voice growing soft.

“No. No, I don’t think I am,” Charles said, before looking at Logan with his deep-blue eyes. Without a word, Charles lifted his arm, Logan curling up his lip and standing up to slip an arm under Charles, pulling him up from the bed with practised ease. Charles wrapped his arms around Logan’s neck to steady himself, holding himself close enough to smell the earthy scent clinging to his skin, the same as the day Logan had rescued him from the Moor. Charles smiled when Logan lowered him into his wheelchair.

“Thank you, my friend,” Charles murmured, Logan’s arms sliding from his back and linger on his arms. “For helping me.”

“You know we do this because we care about you, Chuck. Not because we pity you, or think you weak,” Logan said, Charles’s breath catching in his throat. “Jean says she thinks you’re the strongest out of all of us.”

“That is hard to believe, Logan,” Charles said, allowing the other man to grip onto the handles at the back of his chair, pushing him through the halls to the dining room, Charles famished after being unconscious for most of the day. “But I will try to believe it.”

“Mm, you better. Jean can be terrifying if you tell her that she’s wrong,” Logan said, Charles laughing, a real, honest laugh.

“She is probably the strongest out of all of us, in the end, my friend.”

“I can agree with you about that, Chuck.”

***

Charles had begun to accept that, for the most part, he would need the wheelchair if he wanted to move around without crumpling onto the floor in pain every few steps. While he could manage short distances by hopping on his right foot and putting occasional, limping pressure on his left, it took a lot more willpower and strength than it did for him to use the wheelchair.

Logan had spent some more time tweaking the chair whenever he would find new materials to use, and it had become a sort of pet project for him. The wheels ran smoother now, and it no longer made an obnoxious squeaking sound every time he would turn right. Jean and Ororo had also embroidered some new cushions for him to fit to the chair, making it far more comfortable than it was before, so Charles was not as angry with being forced into the contraption as he was before.

Charles felt that he was finally getting better, at least physically. He was still plagued by memories of Erik and Ironfield, the bleeding wound under his left rib still seeping and staining him everywhere. Charles missed him, desperately, and that was what hurt the most, because he knew he could never return, not now.

Charles pushed away thoughts of Erik as much as he could, focusing on wheeling himself towards a mirror leaning against the wall in Logan’s room. On his lap held a small box, with a razor, scissors and shaving soap. Charles had let himself go over the past month and a half, his beard outgrown and hair shaggy. He looked as much of a mess as he felt, but now that he was beginning to control and reel in the fraying edges of his life, he needed to start taking care of himself again.

Charles shaved slowly, the hair on his face and chin dropping to his lap, revealing smooth and pale flesh that had not seen sunlight for many weeks. By the time his scraggly beard was a pile of fur on his thighs, Charles felt lighter.

Logan walked in as Charles was depositing his hair into a waste bin, letting out a whistle at his clean-shaven look, which returned to the appearance of the neatly-kept man he was before he lost the things he cherished the most.

“You seem to be feeling better, Chuck.”

“I am, thank you. Though, I wish to give my hair a little trim, but I am sure I’ll mess it up if I try to do it myself. Would you be so kind as to help, Logan?”

“You’re asking _me_ to cut your hair? Chuck, I thought you had gotten over your self-mutilation phase,” Logan taunted, smirking. Charles just laughed, handing Logan a pair of scissors from the box he had in his hands.

“I’ve seen you with blades, Logan, and you wield them like they’re a part of you,” Charles said, remembering how he had watched Logan work once, expertly manipulating a blade to carve intricate designs into a wooden door he was making. “I trust you. Just, don’t make me bald, please.”

Logan grunted, taking the scissors and kicking a stool over to sit behind Charles, legs spread wide to accommodate the man’s wheelchair. Charles closed his eyes as he felt Logan’s fingers brush through his hair, rough fingers gentle as they manually tugged out some of the knots on the lengthy brown waves.

“Mm, that feels quite nice, my friend,” Charles breathed out, making Logan chuckle, a low rumble that Charles could feel reverberating along his spine. Apart from an occasional contented sigh from Charles, the only sounds in the room were the _snip, snip_ of scissors, and Logan blowing roughly on his hands to get rid of the hair that got stuck in the webbing of his fingers.

After a long while, Logan put the scissors down, running his fingers through Charles’s shorter hair and tickling the young man’s scalp before squeezing his shoulders. Charles had drifted off sometime during the cutting process, Logan’s hands more soothing than he expected them to be.

Waking from the gentle squeeze of his shoulders, Charles opened his eyes and saw himself in the mirror. He truly looked like a different person from the man that he was only an hour ago; his face was a little thinner than it had been at Ironfield, but he had a bit if colour to his cheeks now, and no longer sported dark circles and chapped lips. He looked a little older, but still fresh-faced. Alive.

“Hmph. Not bad, if I do say so myself, Chuck.”

“Yes, quite,” Charles said, looking into Logan’s eyes through the mirror, smile playing at his lips. “I’m glad I still have hair.”

Logan grinned, flicking the back of Charles’s neck, before tugging on his chair, saying that the reason he came in was to tell him that Ororo had finished making dinner. It was probably cold now, and Jean would probably chastise them, but the two men didn’t mind at all, not when Charles looked happier than ever, reborn.

***

A few weeks later, Jean and Ororo spoke to the owner of the new school to secure a job for Charles, the inaugural term beginning in about a fortnight. Mr William Stryker was a fat and bitter man, and thought that because of his fortunate position of being the richest man in the small parish, he had control over all of its operations. He was a self-crowned king.

Stryker had not been overly enthusiastic about Jean and Ororo’s proposal, always uncomfortable with newcomers. Stryker liked to know everything that went on in ‘his’ parish, because when you knew what made people tick, you could control them. For the Howlett household, it was easy to control them with money; they were not well-off, like many people in the parish, and Stryker knew that he could keep them in line by controlling their employment and income.

Stryker had asked to meet with the newcomer to his parish, having heard a little about who he was from the gossiping farmer’s wives and the parish priest’s chatty congregation. He had apparently arrived almost two months ago, and had been taken in by Howlett. Stryker sneered at that, finding Howlett’s tendency to pick up strays comical, considering he could barely provide for his flesh-and-blood sister alone. Other than that, he knew barely anything about the man, apart from the fact that he was a cripple with a mysterious background.

Ordinarily, Stryker would have denied the man of a job outright, but he had been struggling to find a male teacher to fill the role, not wanting to leave the running of the school to two women of poor birth, one of which a Negro. Stryker ground his teeth at the thought of the dark-skinned girl, abhorring the idea of having to pay her a wage. He had been forced into it, however; he had originally only wanted the pretty Jean girl to teach, but she would not accept the position if her ‘sister’ was not employed alongside her. Unfortunately, there were no other adults of adequate education to take up the role, leaving Stryker with the one, distasteful option.

Because the mystery man was a cripple, Stryker visited Eden House on a Sunday morning after church to interview the man about the job, and to also try to find out more about him. Stryker hoped that by the end of the meeting he would be able to glean the man’s strengths and weaknesses, and areas of exploitation.

Howlett had opened the door when he knocked on it, rabid expression the same as always. The man did not greet him, just grunted and opened the door wide, the wood smacking loudly against the wall with a screech of the hinges.

Stryker never liked Howlett; the man was openly rebellious, and challenged his authority at any chance he could. Stryker only tolerated him because his abrasive personality also grated on the nerves of other parishioners, and he used that to garner favour. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they say.

Stryker just looked at Howlett with thinly veiled disgust, trudging past him and into the meagre sitting room.

He saw Jean and the Negro sharing a couch, the red-head undertaking some embroidery while the Negro read a book, seemingly in German. Sitting beside them near the only fire lit was the wheelchair-bound man, who looked much younger than Stryker had expected him to. When the parish folk had mentioned that he was a cripple, he had immediately envisioned an old lecher with bent feet and a balding head of hair. Instead, he was greeted by a youthful man with thick brown locks, azure eyes and full red mouth, dressed in a neat and simple suit.

His legs were covered by a blanket, so Stryker could not assess the damage to the man’s legs, but he looked wholly intact above waist. He was small, but not the frail old man Stryker was expecting.

“Good morning, Sir,” the teacher said, nodding his head down. “I would stand to greet you, but I have met my walking quota for this morning, unfortunately.”

“I understand, Mr…” Stryker said, trailing off as he regarded the man, eyes narrowed in calculation. Charles smiled serenely, hands calmly clasped over his lap atop a closed book about the flora and fauna of Australia.

“Xander. Charles Xander. And you are Mr Stryker, I gather. Jean and Ororo have told me about you and the new school. I believe that you are looking for another teacher?”

 _‘Xander,’_ Stryker thought, _‘I do not know of any notable families with the name Xander. He must be a middle-class man, at the most, though he does sound properly educated.’_

Stryker did not know that his name was false. Charles, though retaining all of his memories, did not want to drag them to this place where he was beginning to build a new life. Charles had left Ironfield with the intention of not being found, wanting to leave the pain and hurt from what he considered his past life behind, at least on the surface. On the inside, he still missed Erik and Ironfield, but willed himself to stop it at that. He had provided Stryker with the name Charles Xander, which was what he was now known as in the small parish. Charles Xavier of Ironfield Hall, and the Charles Xavier who loved Erik Lehnsherr, would be locked away inside Charles’s heart, privy onto to himself.

Word travelled far and fast, and Logan had told Charles that Stryker was the type of man to dig. If Stryker were to find out about his past and his hasty leave from Ironfield, Charles was sure that he would be cast out, or at worst, hanged. This area past the Moors was far from Ironfield, but if Charles could get here, gossip could too. Charles could imagine the looks on everyone’s faces if they found out that he was a sodomite, and that he had entered an illicit relationship with a married man that he still loved.

“Yes, I do have a position available at the school for a male teacher. Mr Xander, understand that I do wish to employ you, but one must be vigorous in the hiring process. Most of the children have never been to school before, and thus require a competent teacher to help guide them. Unfortunately, I do not know of your background. Do you have any references, or are you able to prove your competency?” Stryker spoke, voice lofty and condescending. Charles was not fazed, too used to pompous men after living at Westchester and Graymalkin.

“Mr Stryker, I believe I told you that Charles’s memory is limited. He was very ill when he came to us, and could barely remember his own name. My sister and I vouch for his competency; he is actually far more knowledgeable than us in many fields. Or, dare I say, in all of them,” Jean said, giving Charles a reassuring smile, one the man mirrored.

“I do not usually make a habit of trusting hearsay, Miss Grey, but since you are a fellow teacher I will take in your judgement. Mr Xander, if you agree, I will be offer you the job for a brief trial period, say, two months. If results prove you competent, then I will offer you full time employment. Does that sound reasonable to you?” Stryker said, glancing at the other individuals in the room. Jean and Ororo looked happy at the outcome, which was to be expected, but Howlett’s reaction was interesting. The man hovered by the cripple’s side, and Stryker was observant enough to catch the worried glance the gruff man shot him.

_Interesting._

Stryker filed that little titbit away, turning back to Charles, who nodded and smiled graciously.

“That sounds very reasonable. I thank you for this opportunity,” Charles said, shaking Stryker’s hand. The young man’s group was firm and tough, and Stryker’s eyes narrowed. Charles Xander was odd, too put together to fit in to their small rural parish. He seemed to have come from somewhere far more developed, and if he was as intelligent as Jean had said, it made no sense for him to come to such a rural locale.

 _‘I suppose I need to do some digging,’_ Stryker told himself, offering the man a snake-like smile.

“Excellent. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Xander. I hope that you will settle in to your place well,” Stryker said, nodding at the lady and the Negro, before pointedly ignoring Howlett and leaving Eden House.

Once Stryker left, Charles gave Logan a raised brow and a little snort.

“You were right, Logan. He really is a pompous git,” Charles said, Logan grinning, his canines glinting in the fire’s glow. “I don’t think I like him.”

“Few people do, Chuck. Least of all us,” Logan said, Jean and Ororo nodding.

“Well, enough about him. I believe we have a job to prepare for,” Charles said, the family around him smiling, putting down their embroidery and books to begin getting ready for their first classes.


	9. Chapter 9

Charles, Jean and Ororo giddily chatted to each other as they walked the short path to the new school grounds, a modest building that had once been a barn, but had been extended by a few single-storey stone rooms. Since it was such a small parish school, it was not practical to segregate the boys from the girls, so Charles, Jean and Ororo worked closely together.

The three teachers would swap in and out for different classes depending on which subjects they preferred. Jean enjoyed teaching English and history, while Ororo was in charge of the French and geography lessons. Charles, of course, taught science and mathematics.

Charles loved teaching at the school – though the children were farmer’s sons and daughters and by no means avid scholars, they were curious enough about the ways of the world and listened attentively. It was vastly different from teaching at Graymalkin, and definitely a whole different experience compared to teaching Peter, but still fulfilling.

Charles also loved teaching since it took his mind off other things, namely thoughts about Erik. When he was teaching, he focused solely on the children. When either Jean or Ororo had taken over the class, he would focus on organising the content for his next lesson, or mark work sheets under a single candlelight. When he returned home, he would try to absorb himself into Jean’s poetry readings, or get Ororo to teach him more Spanish.

A season and change passed by just like that, Charles becoming absorbed in his work and not much else. He had recovered from his weakness after being exposed to the elements on the Moors five months prior, and though his foot was still maimed, it did not bother him much at all now. He still used the chair, but found that he could at least walk a lap around the small garden at the back of Eden House with relative ease.

Still, Charles overworked himself, especially once Stryker had seemed satisfied with his competency after the first two months on the job, offering him a permanent position. But Charles had not missed the man’s subtle attempts to find out about Charles’s past. He asked Charles if he remember his education (he said he did not, but that he thought he maybe had a tutor, which he also did not), if Charles worked at another school prior (he said that he did not know), or if he remembered where the Xander family hailed from (he also said that he had no clue, much to Stryker’s frustration).

Charles still remained a bit of an enigma, and Stryker felt, in his robust gut, that the man knew more than he was revealing. He could not attack the man, though, since Charles had become rather popular in the rural parish. He was charming, young and sociable, and despite being a cripple, he managed to curry favour with his students, and more importantly, their parents. Stryker had received many letters stating that they people were immensely happy with the quality of teaching the children have been receiving at the school, particularly mentioning Mr Charles Xander. Stryker crumpled up all the letters and threw them into the fire.

Charles Xander was becoming far too popular, and far too powerful for Stryker’s liking. The only power Stryker had over the man was his wealth, so Stryker was glad that the man was at least poor. It appeased him slightly to know that he still controlled the teacher’s salary.

It was one evening in the blistering winter that Charles’s body grew weak. He had always been sensitive to the cold, and now crippled and overworked, he could not stave off the slight sickness that gripped him. He soldiered on, though, and now sat at the desk Logan had made for him, coughing a little as he scribbled down some notes in his book.

Charles now shared Logan’s bedchambers with him. Not in the same manner that he and Erik shared a room, but more out of necessity. Sleeping on the chaise in the sitting room was alright during the warmer months, but in winter the room was freezing, and sleeping there was asking for frostbite to nip off his fingers and toes.

Logan’s bedroom was not large and could not fit another bed in it. It was a good thing that Charles was small, because it meant that the two men could just fit on the pre-existing bed when they lay side by side on their backs, though their arms pressed together tightly. That was not all bad, not when Logan was like a furnace and Charles’s maimed foot did not circulate blood as well as it used to.

Logan was already lying on the bed, only wearing a set of flimsy linen trousers. Charles, on the other hand, was wrapped up in his trousers, shirt, coat, two pairs of socks and was weighed down by two blankets over his shoulders. It did not help that there was a frosty draft drifting in through the gaps in the window, cold even with the warmth radiating from the fireplace on the other side of the room.

Charles coughed again, causing Logan to curse, the bed creaking as the large man sat up.

“Chuck, stop overworking yourself and rest. You’re going to waste away again,” Logan grumbled, Charles just humming as he covered his mouth to cough again, flicking to the next page in his book. Charles heard Logan click his tongue in annoyance, and let out a startled yelp when his wheelchair was suddenly jerked back, his pencil dropping onto his now abandoned book.

“Logan!” Charles began to whine, frowning when the man pressed a warm hand to his forehead, checking for a fever. Luckily, Charles was not feverish, only run down with a little niggle in his throat.

“If you don’t want that cough to get worse, go to bed now, Chuck,” Logan said, ignoring Charles’s protests as he took it upon himself to pick the younger man up, throwing him without a hint of delicacy onto their shared bed.

“You are a brute,” Charles huffed, but shivered with the loss of the two blankets he had been wearing earlier, burrowing into the one on the bed instead. The sheets had already been warmed by Logan’s body, and Charles couldn’t help but sigh in contentment, making Logan chuckle.

Logan lowered himself besides Charles, and couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face when Charles subconsciously snuggled closer to him, chasing his body heat. Logan hesitated for a moment, looking down at the smaller man beside him, blue-eyed and red-lipped, and a surge of desire pulsed through him, unfamiliar and consuming.

Slowly, Logan shifted his arm so it wrapped around Charles, tugging him in closer. Charles’s breath hitched, and the boy immediately froze, ocean eyes wide. Charles’s hand was pressed against Logan’s chest now, pushing a little. Logan’s heart stuttered.

“Sorry,” Logan mumbled, retracting his arm, frowning. “Did I read you wrong, Chuck? I thought, I had the feeling that, even though we’re both men…”

“No,” Charles started, before grimacing. “Yes. And no. I- I’m sorry, my friend. It is not you. You are perfect, and you are right about _that_. It’s not normal, or proper, I know, but… that’s how I am. If that makes you uncomfortable, I can return to the chaise. You only need to tell me.”

“I just held you, and you’re asking if I am uncomfortable with the fact that you like men?” Logan scoffed, Charles’s cheeks flushing at the bluntness of his statement. “Chuck, you know me. I don’t care about what’s proper.”

Charles laughed, a little weakly, looking up at Logan then. He did find the man attractive, and he did like him. He maybe even loved him, but not in the way he loved Erik. He loved Logan the same way he loved Jean and Ororo, Moira and Alex. Logan was a close friend, as close as a brother.

“Like I said, my friend. You are perfect,” Charles said, holding his hands to his own chest now. Logan cracked a smile, turning to face Charles a little better.

“You said something about it not being me. I’m a simple man, Chuck, but even I can read that you have some sort of past… with someone.” Charles winced at Logan’s words, mouth about to open with an excuse, or quip about having no memories, which Logan knew was utter shite. “Chuck, I know that you remember things. I think you remember _everything_. You’ve been living with us for half a year, I think we can read you better than most people now.”

“I can’t hide it from you, can I?” Charles sighed, Logan exhaling sharply.

“You don’t have to. You can tell me, and Jean and Ororo. You know that we would never talk. I hardly talk to anyone outside of this household, anyway,” Logan said, smiling wryly. Charles laughed again, before nursing his lower lip. Charles hadn’t told anyone about his past, but he believed that, if he would tell anyone, it would be the three people in this house, Logan most of all.

“It is a long story, my friend,” Charles said, Logan shuffling in the bed to get more comfortable, giving Charles a raised eyebrow to continue. Charles started to talk, his words stunted at first, unsure. But as he continued, the words began to flow more freely, until the flood gates opened completely. It was easy talking to Logan; the man’s face barely changed from its usual gruff indifference, though Charles knew he was listening attentively when the man would grunt every now and then, eyes never leaving Charles’s face.

Charles started from the beginning, about Westchester and Graymalkin, and then about Ironfield. Charles told Logan everything, about how he adored teaching little Peter, about his friendship with Moira and the other staff. He told the man in his bed about the master of Ironfield, the man that had loved him and broken him. He told him about how Erik had made his newborn heart jealous with Emma, and how they had loved each other desperately. How he _still_ loved Erik desperately.

Then Charles told him about the Creeds and the marriage, about the ghost who still haunts Charles now, miles and miles away. Charles ended the story with tears in his eyes, wiping them away as he gave Logan a final, shaky smile.

“And then you found me wandering the Moors. Erik once asked me if I had a tale of woe. I believe I just told it to you,” Charles murmured quietly, Logan silent, before speaking.

“You still love him,” Logan said slowly, Charles nodding. “Then why don’t you return to him?”

“You know why, Logan.”

“He loves you too, Chuck. It’s obvious, from what you told me. A man like that does not let go of someone like you, even if you go away,” Logan said, knowing full well how hard it would be to forget someone like Chuck.

Charles let out a choked noise, fresh tears sprouting from his eyes.

“I hear his voice sometimes, you know,” Charles whispered, pressing two fingers to his temple. “In here. I can hear him calling for me. I don’t know if I am mad, or if my dreams about him linger when I am awake. But I swear, I can hear him.”

“He’s calling you back, Chuck,” Logan said simply, Charles squeezing his eyes closed.

“Is it not too late for me to go back, though? I… have a life here, now. With you, and Jean and Ororo. With the children at the school. I have a life here. Would it not be selfish for me to abandon it, just because I long for one man?”

“You are a strange and selfless fool, Chuck,” Logan said, nudging at Charles’s chin with a rough finger. “And you are tired. So go to sleep, now, and think about things properly in the morning.”

Charles let out a throaty noise, something like an ‘okay’ and a ‘thank you’, before slipping into a deep sleep wrapped up in Logan’s warmth. Logan watched him sleep, for a moment. And he thought, _‘that man, Erik. For him, I doubt that it would ever be too late, not as long as you came back to him. I’d be the same way.’_

The morning after, Charles and Logan gathered Jean and Ororo, and Charles told them the story he had told Logan. He did not cry this time, even if his heart ached. Jean and Ororo had tears in their eyes instead, and both got up from their seats to hug Charles, whom they thought of as their second brother. They understood him, and promised that they would be there for him, because that was what family did.

***

Three more months passed, and winter turned into spring. Nothing much happened during that time, and life was simple yet tranquil. The school was operating well, and the occupants of Eden House could begin to afford a few more luxuries in their life with all four members having found employment. They no longer had to restrict fires to a single room, and Ororo finally got her new shoes. Meals were no longer watered-down stew, and they could afford bread and good meat, as well as wine for special occasions.

Charles’s birthday was one such occasion. The festivities weren’t grand – Jean and Ororo had taken it upon themselves to cook a hearty roast meal, and Logan had crafted Charles a new walking stick as a gift. Charles was taken aback by the detailed and intricate design, and had kept running his fingers over the smooth surface of the object.

“It never ceases to amaze me how rough hands like yours can create such delicate art like this,” Charles had said, Ororo cackling at Charles’s insult-compliment, Jean’s lips quirking as she poured everyone wine. The household sang and danced – well, Ororo sang and danced, and Charles just sang. Charles attempted to dance, Ororo spinning him around in his chair, making him laugh wildly, immensely happy.

Charles had never thought too much about birthdays. He had rarely celebrated them in his childhood, only getting a cake from Kitty and an impersonal card and toy from his mother. At Graymalkin, birthdays did not exist, though the one birthday that he shared with Raven was a cherished memory, the girl making him a crown of daisies as a gift.

Nineteen was no major milestone, but it was now his most favourite birthday, and an important memory. Charles was not aware that it was important in a different way, one that would rock the newly built boat he had built after his last one had been overturned in a storm.

It was another month after Charles’s birthday that Jean came running in to the school building, cheeks flushed as red as her hair, the hem of her dress caked with dust and mud.

“Professor,” Jean said, still using the affectionate nickname despite knowing that it was in no way true. “I have news. Startling news.”

“What is it, Jean?” Charles asked, putting aside the writing boards and chalk he was tidying up, wheeling over to his sister and grasping her slender arm.

“I think I should sit,” Jean said, wringing her hands together, taking a seat at the edge of a long bench besides Charles’s wheelchair. Charles’s brow was furrowed with nervousness and suspense, Jean rarely getting so agitated about anything.

“I had just talked to Stryker about ordering more benches for the students, since our numbers have grown since winter. When I left, there was an unfamiliar man that went into his office; he was wearing a fine suit, and was definitely from the city. I had a feeling, you see, so I stayed around to try and listen. We have never trusted Stryker, and the whole thing smelled off,” Jean said, glancing around, checking to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Neither Charles nor Jean sensed any other presence in the room, Jean continuing in a hushed voice.

“That man, I could not catch his name, said that he was a lawyer from -shire. You said that was where your old residence, Ironfield Hall, was, so I knew it had something to do with you.”

“Has Stryker’s inquiries into my identity yielded fruit, then? Jean, this is terrible news,” Charles said, heart seizing. Jean quickly shook her head, though her tensed figure did not ease.

“Stryker did not seem to know your real name, but he does now. The lawyer said that he was looking for a Mr Charles Xavier, formerly of Westchester, Graymalkin School and Ironfield Hall. The lawyer has been looking for you, and had heard rumours of someone matching your description – it was likely because Stryker was asking about you, and the lawyer put two-and-two together.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groaned, Jean grabbing his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Did the lawyer say what he was looking for me for? Was it about Ironfield? Did… Did something happen to Erik?”

Jean shook her head.

“No, Stryker asked about the reason too, but the lawyer said that he could not disclose private information to anyone other than Mr Charles Xavier. Stryker knew that the man would not budge, and I think he wanted to send the man away, but this was an opportunity for him to discover the truth about you. Charles, I ran here the moment I heard, but the man is coming here to the school, now. I wanted to warn you, first, so you are prepared.”

“Thank you, Jean,” Charles said, just as there was the sound of crunching gravel from the path leading to the school building. Jean and Charles looked at each other, the woman touching her palm to Charles’s cheek supportively, before she stood from the bench as the lawyer entered.

“Mr Charles Xavier?” the lawyer asked, looking directly at Charles. The teacher could see the man confirming the description he had been given; blue eyes, brown hair, short stature. The lawyer had not been told that he was a cripple, however – the account had been from someone who had only seen him a year or so prior, so it was not unlikely that the information was outdated.

“Yes, I am Charles Xavier,” Charles said, clearing his scratchy throat.

“Excellent, I have journeyed far to find you, Mr Xavier. I am Jean-Paul Beaubier, a lawyer employed by the late Mr Brian Xavier,” the man said, smiling at Charles, whose mouth dropped open at the mention of his father’s name.

“My… father?” Charles asked, the lawyer nodding. “You knew my father?”

“Yes, quite well, in fact. A man of your father’s standing, he required legal counsel often, and I’d like to think that he considered me a friend. I saw you once, when you were just an infant. Your mother had been holding you when I executed your father’s will. I have just been to visit your mother in my search for you, actually. She is faring well along the seaside. It seems that being freed from her second husband did her well.”

If Charles had not been sitting in his wheelchair, he was sure he would have collapsed on the spot at the news.

“So you’re calling upon me in relation to my father? He has been dead almost nineteen years,” Charles said, the lawyer nodding, a little sad at the memory of his friend’s passing.

“Yes. You are nineteen years old now, correct?” Charles nodded, the lawyer smiling as he pulled out a document from his case, passing it to Charles. “You may read it, but I will tell you the short of it. There was another part written in your father’s will that only he, I and your mother knew about. Even though your father was not able to spend as much time with you as he wanted, he loved you dearly. He was also a smart man, who knew that his wealth would attract unsavoury characters who may take advantage of his grieving widow and his infant son. So, he stipulated that, upon your nineteenth birthday, you should two receive an inheritance of 20,000 pounds.”

Jean gasped audibly, Charles startling in his chair.

“20,000 pounds?!” Charles exclaimed, looking at Jean, who was looking back at him with her mouth on the floor.

“Yes, Mr Xavier,” the lawyer said, laughing and pleased at Charles’s reaction, no doubt expecting something of the sort. “It is hard to believe, I know, but it is all written there. Your father knew that by this age, even if circumstances were poor, you would be independent. From the journey I have taken to find you, I think that your father predicted the future aptly.”

“My… My mother never told me. You said that she was aware of this?” Charles asked, eyes rapidly drinking in the printed letters spread across the pages in his hands. They said exactly the same words that Mr Beaubier had spoken, the signatures official, the seal ironclad.

“Yes, she became known to the fact right after his death, when his will was first executed. When I saw your mother most recently, she told me that… she had not been a good mother in many aspects. Maybe in all of them. But, the one thing that she said that she did right was protect this secret. She told me to tell you that she hopes with this, you can begin to forgive her for all that she did, and did not do.”

“I…” Charles started, mouth open in silence. “Jean.”

“Y-Yes?” the woman said, jumping at being addressed. Charles turned to her, a smile beginning to grow on his mouth, hands shaking with excitement.

“Jean, I think that we are set for life.”

***

“So now you’re a pompous _and_ rich git, Chuck,” Logan said after being momentarily shocked into silence, something that did not happen often. Ororo just stared at Charles, slack jawed, looking down at the papers in his hand, back and Charles, and then back down again.

“Professor, this is written in English, yes? Because I can’t seem to make sense of it,” Ororo said, Charles laughing.

“I assure you, Ororo, everything you read is true. We no longer have to worry about putting food on the table. We can even renovate the entire house, or by a whole new one! Or ten!” Charles said, wheeling over to lay his hand over Ororo’s. 

“20,000 pounds,” Ororo mouthed. “10,000 multiplied by 2. 20,000. Professor, you are a true heir! By dickens, you’re leagues richer than even Stryker, and we thought he was overly stuffed!”

“Speaking of Stryker. He knows your real name now, Chuck. It won’t be long until he finds out about your past,” Logan said, voice dangerous. The mood in the house immediately dampened, Jean coming to sit beside Ororo, looking worried. Charles could feel Logan pacing the room behind him, heavy feet clunking on the wooden floor.

“Will he do anything about it, though? I know money is not infallible, but the reason he is so revered and feared is because of his money. I know I sound like a complete arse, but I can out-pay him more than twice-fold,” Charles said, Logan snorting.

“Yes, you sound like a bloody arse, but you also sound like an idiot. Stryker is not only powerful because of his money. He is a man that is able to use your weaknesses against you. He will incite fear amongst the people, and – you know these are not my thoughts – but when he finds out your…” Logan started, Jean clearing her throat and piping up.

“Your _proclivities_ ,” she supplied carefully, Logan rolling his eyes.

“I was going to say ‘when he finds out about your love for cock’, but that works too,” Logan said, the girls blushing while Charles spluttered. “Anyway, Stryker is not above using those despicable tactics. He will think that you are a threat because of your wealth. Chuck, this is my opinion, but you can’t stay here.”

Charles’s heart dropped in his chest, eyes wide as he twisted in his chair to look at Logan.

“Are you asking me to leave?” Charles whispered, his sisters also turning to their older brother with shocked faces, as pained as Charles.

“Logan, you must be speaking in jest,” Jean said, reaching to grab Charles’s hand, like her slender fingers could tether him to their side.

“Yes, brother! Charles is family, I can’t believe you’re talking about throwing him out! We know you love him, too!” Ororo said, Charles blushing, catching Logan’s eye. The older man just huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You lot think _so_ highly of me. I’m wounded,” Logan said sarcastically, leaning to against the back of the chaise. “I said that Chuck should leave, but I didn’t say that he would leave alone.”

Charles’s heart warmed, Logan smiling a little as Jean and Ororo let out relieved sighs, the latter hitting Logan’s arm for making them think about something as horrible as parting from Charles.

“But if we all leave, we would be abandoning the children,” Charles said, frowning at the thought. “We are the only teachers here, they’d be left with no one to guide them.”

“Stryker would be able to find new teachers eventually,” Logan said, shrugging. “He’d probably just have to empty his bloated pockets some more. Just because you’re filthy rich, you can’t forget that Stryker does have a comfortable sum too, Chuck.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” Charles sighed, Logan whistling, shaking his head. “Very well. I don’t feel completely comfortable with leaving the children, but Stryker is a dangerous man and I don’t want to endanger you all. I’ll at least leave the school with a sum of money – the pastor is a good and honest man, he can at least use it to help sustain the children in our absence, until new teachers are found.”

“Selfless as always, Professor,” Jean said, shaking her head fondly. “Let us begin to pack, then. Stryker will get information soon, so it is best if we vanish long before then.”

***

After living a frugal life for years, Jean and Ororo found it hard to part with things, even after Charles assured them that they could buy everything anew. So, they just packed their clothes and toiletries, and things that were particularly sentimental, like family sketches, Logan and Jean’s mother’s keepsakes, some books. Their travel cases were packed full to bursting, Logan having to stomp on them so they latched closed.

They made plans to leave in two days’ time. It took couriers at least two days to get to their parish from any of the larger cities, including that of Ironfield. Charles had given the pastor a sum of 2000 pounds, telling him that it may be best to tell no other soul about it. The pastor had understood, the large amount of money likely to spark a frenzy in the small parish. The pastor had thanked Charles for the donation, telling him that they would use it wisely.

It was now the eve of their departure, and Jean and Ororo were in their room trying to sleep, but too excited to do so successfully. Charles could hear them whispering about going on their first long carriage journey, smiling at his sisters before wheeling himself to his and Logan’s room.

Logan was busy neatening up some of the things on Charles’s desk, and turned when he heard the teacher enter.

“We’re leaving tomorrow, but Chuck, do you even know where you’re going to go?” Logan asked, Charles tapping on the arm rest of his chair, biting his lower lip. Logan waited for Charles to answer, but when he didn’t, he stopped organising Charles’s books to turn to the man. “Chuck?”

“I… Logan. If I… If I said that I would go back _there_ , would you oppose it? Would you still want to come with me?” Charles asked, Logan blinking.

“By there you mean… to _Erik_?” Logan’s voice was even, and Charles could not pick out his feelings on the matter based on his voice and expression.

“Yes. Apart from here, Ironfield is my only home. I know I could buy a whole house for the four of us. Gosh, I could buy us a house each, and still have plenty to spare. But…”

“You want to return to him,” Logan said simply, Charles nibbling on his lower lip again, nodding. Logan just shrugged, turning back to Charles’s desk. “I knew you would decide that. I was just asking to make sure that _you_ knew what you wanted.”

“Logan?”

“Look, Chuck. I like you. A lot,” Logan said, Charles’s cheeks reddening. “But I know that you love that Lehnsherr man, and I know not to bet on a losing hand. You’re family, Chuck, even if I see you as more than a brother sometimes. You’re infuriating like that, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Logan,” Charles said, Logan smiling and shrugging again.

“It is what it is. Like Jean and Ororo, I just want to see you happy. God knows you deserve it, after all the shit he put you through.”

“You’re coming for my title as the most selfless git now, Logan,” Charles grinned, Logan throwing a wad of paper at the young man, who laughed.

“Sure, sure. You should go to bed, first. I’m sure that spending 2000 pounds without batting an eyelash earlier today was draining on your energy reserves,” Logan said, Charles throwing back the stack of paper at the man’s jibe, Logan letting out a husky laugh.

“Stop it, Logan. You know this money is as much yours as it is mine,” Charles huffed, Logan’s teasing smile turning gentle, the man regarding him carefully.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Chuck, but your father left that money for you. He’d want you to use it for yourself. If this is about you wanting to repay us for taking you in, you repaid that debt long ago. Not that there was a debt to begin with,” Logan said, Charles shaking his head.

“No, you don’t understand, Logan. I’m not doing this out of duty or debt. I… My father gave me this money because I am his son, his family. And like you said, _you_ are _my_ family. So I want to share this money with you, too. Please let me,” Charles said, looking at Logan with fierce eyes. Those eyes were ones that could make any one weak to do his bidding. Logan was no exception, and maybe even more susceptible than most.

“You’re still the most selfless fool, Charles,” Logan said, using the young man’s real name, just this once. “Now go to bed. You have a long journey tomorrow, and your foot might not fare too well in a bumpy carriage.”

Charles smiled at Logan, hoisting himself into bed with a practised hop and twist, having lived in his wheelchair for the better part of a year now.

Unlike his sisters, Charles fell asleep quickly. Before he slipped into unconsciousness, Charles felt fingers run through his hair, the touch gentle, but feeling more like a goodbye than a caress.

***

Charles found out that it had been a goodbye the next morning, when there were a series of frantic knocks on the front door. Charles had woken up to an empty bed in the morning, Logan’s side cold. Charles figured that he had gone out to make last minute departure preparations, and hadn’t thought too much of it. The man had always been an early riser, unlike Charles.

Charles was making sure that they had all of their luggage, Jean getting up from where she was retying her shoes to answer the door.

The moment she opened it, a group of policemen immediately stormed the house. The peelers were clad in long blue coats and stiff tall hats, imposing as they kept their hands on their batons. This parish was in one of the boroughs that had adopted a professional police force, and most of the parish’s families were wary of the blue coats. The parish constable walked in after the swarm of blue filled out the small foyer, Jean and Ororo standing stiff, alert.

“Gentleman? What seems to be the matter?” Charles asked, wheeling to move between the group of policemen and his sisters, looking at them with a frown.

“Where were you three last night, around the time between three and four,” the constable asked, tapping his finger on his baton, carefully evaluating the three of them. Jean and Ororo looked at each other, confused, while Charles’s heart thumped. Something in him knew that, in some capacity, Logan was involved. Logan, who wasn’t here right now, who, likely, had not gone to bed at all last night. 

Charles tried to keep calm as he spoke to the officers. They were still a new police force, and though their uniforms were crisp, they held a buzz of nervous and uncertainty. Whatever they were here about unsettled them, and Charles could only imagine what that was.

“We were asleep, in our beds,” Charles said, Jean and Ororo nodding. The way the sisters were glancing at other, they had also come to realise that Logan wasn’t among them.

“Can anyone corroborate your claim?” the constable asked, and Charles swallowed.

“No one apart from us. We do not receive guests at that hour, and definitely not while we sleep,” Charles replied, the constable narrowing his eyes at Charles’s slightly sharp words. “And may I ask why you are asking these questions, barging into our home without so much as a greeting?”

“Mr Stryker’s body was found dead in his home this morning, with three slashing knife wounds from sternum to navel,” the constable said, Jean and Ororo letting out shocked noises, Charles’s eyes widening. The constable took in all of their reactions; all three had seemed to have genuinely been shocked, making the constable’s shoulders loosen slightly.

The constable looked around the room properly then, noticing the packed bags, and how the women were wearing their travel cloaks. The house was neat because it was empty, and the furniture had been covered by white cloths with the intent to leave it vacant for a long time.

“You can’t blame me for being a little suspicious that you three seem to be fleeing the morning after a murder,” the constable said, Charles tensing imperceivably.

“Yes. You may have heard that I received news from a lawyer in recent days. There had been a withheld request in my late father’s will, and I have been called away. The others of Eden House are my family, and they sought to accompany me,” Charles said, the constable humming.

“You three are all teachers at the school. Stryker would not have let you all leave. Maybe that is why you…” the constable dragged his finger from sternum to navel, mimicking a knife being dragged down. Charles felt ill, and he shook his head, mouth a tight line.

“We would never do something like that,” Charles said. _Even if Stryker was a monster, even if he deserved it_. “And constable, I would like you to take a look at the three of us. My sisters are young maidens, and would not be capable of injuring Mr Stryker in such a cruel manner. And I, am, well. It is no secret that I am a cripple. There is no way I could best Stryker in this state.”

The policemen all looked at each other, mumbling ‘yes, he’s right’ and ‘of course’. The constable, too, found this to be a sound idea, but that only lead him to remember that four people lived at Eden House, and not just the three in front of him. The missing one was, by far, the most dangerous of the four.

“Mr Logan Howlett lives here too, does he not? Where is he?” the constable asked, the three family members tensing.

“Truthfully? I have not seen him since this morning,” Charles said, jerking his head towards their bedroom. “He went to bed last night as per normal. I would know.”

The constable’s eyes narrowed, peering into the bedroom, and noticing that there was only one bed.

“You two… share a bed?” the constable asked, shocked murmurs erupting from the congregation of policemen.

“It is out of necessity, officers,” Jean piped up, keeping her voice steady. “This house was not made to accommodate four inhabitants, and my brother here came to us less than a year ago. It is too cold for him to stay on the chaise like he did during spring and summer, so he was forced to share a bed with our brother. You can imagine that it would not be appropriate for him to share a bed with me or my sister, is that not true?”

Charles turned to look at Jean, head nodding minutely. Jean returned it by stepping forward, resting her hand on Charles’s left shoulder. Charles felt steadier when Ororo flanked him on the other side, her dark hand squeezing his other shoulder reassuringly.

“Yes, it is as my dear sister said. It is in that way that we seek to leave now. This house has become too confining for us, so we seek a new residence. And regarding the matter about this parish losing its teachers – I have given a weighty sum to the Father to help with the hiring of new teachers, and to support the children in the meantime,” Charles said, the constable now managing to look surprised.

“That was you?” the constable asked, staring at Charles. “The Father did hint that he had received a sizeable donation for the children. If that’s the case…”

“Yes, so you see, Mr Stryker – rest his soul – had approved of our leave since we did not leave him empty handed. We have no reason, and no means, to injure him so,” Charles said, the policemen looking at each other once more, before filing out one-by-one. It was only the constable that looked at Charles carefully, a touch sharper than the newly-instated fledgling police force. He seemed to weigh up some things in his mind, before taking a step towards Charles.

“You taught my son, and he has sung nothing but praises for you,” the constable said, mouth curling up at the corners. “And, you evidently care about the children, more so than Stryker ever did. His ‘care’ was only flaunted when it made him look good. You, though. You genuinely care for them, I can see that. So I’ll warn you – it would be best for your brother to not show his face around here any time soon.”

Charles, Jean and Ororo let out shocked noises, the constable just smiling, tapping on Charles’s hand-rest twice.

“Safe travels, Sir. Misses,” was the last thing the constable said, tipping his hat and departing from the residence.

When they were sure he was out of sight and earshot, Jean and Ororo huddled in front of Charles’s chair, babbling about ‘What in the dickens did Logan do?’ ‘That idiot!’ ‘Did he really do that to Stryker?’ ‘Where is he?’

Charles quickly turned back to the bedroom, going straight to his desk. The papers and books Logan had been sorting last night were still there, seemingly forgotten. But Charles knew that, though Logan seemed messy, he was purposeful. Charles rummaged through the papers, flicking through the books until he found a folded, slightly crinkled piece of paper wedged in the back of one of them.

_Chuck,_

_You are probably angry, and I wish I could see it – you were always the most alive when you were angry. If you’re seeing this, it’s either because you have unpacked after you returned to that master of yours, or you’ve found out about what I did._

_I know Stryker more than you, even more than Jean and Ororo. They were too young to know, but Stryker and I, we have history. Bad history. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that I know what type of man that he is intimately. He has killed to get where he is, and Chuck, that man wasn’t nearly as powerful as you. What’s scary, is that you don’t even know the power you can have over people. I’ve seen it, and Stryker’s seen it._

_Even if you leave, Stryker will seek to defame you and slander you. Even though you mean no harm to him and his empire, he will never believe that. He will try to destroy you, use your reputation about your ‘proclivities’, as Jean put it, to end you. The world is not like us, and would likely rather see you hang._

_And I can’t have that, Chuck. So, I did what I had to do._

_Since you’re reading this, know that I have gone far, and believe that I am safe. Ororo said that the Americas is wild and untamed. I think I’d like that. I can take care of myself, believe me. Jean and Ororo, though. They will need you, Chuck. So, if I can ask you to be selfless one last time, please look after them._

_This is not good bye though, Chuck. Time is long, and I think that we could meet again, in the future._

_Logan_

“Idiot,” Charles whispered, as Jean and Ororo both smothered sobs as they read the letter from behind his chair. Charles rubbed his eyes, worried for this hulking idiot, who in the end, was really the most selfless of them all.

_‘I’ll look after them, my friend. You can trust me on that, and one day, you can come and check to see that I’ve kept my promise in person.’_

After an hour spent crying and accepting that Logan had truly gone far, Charles, Jean and Ororo took hold of their packed cases, beginning their journey. For Jean and Ororo, it was a new adventure. For Charles, it was a journey to return back home.

Charles could barely sleep the whole carriage ride, but when he drew nearer to Ironfield, he swore that he could hear that voice calling out to him in his mind.

_‘Charles’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end now! Just the next chapter, and then the epilogue :)


	10. Chapter 10

Charles kissed Jean and Ororo’s cheeks in that sequence, the women both squeezing his hands for good luck. Jean murmured that they would be waiting here for good news – because, they refused to believe that things would go badly. Charles was grateful for their positivity in a time when his stomach was tying itself up in knots.

Charles left Jean and Ororo at their hotel in the town just outside of Ironfield, the same town that Charles had been walking to when he met Erik for the first time.

It was now almost a year later that Charles has returned, and the day was bright and sunny, unlike the day he ran away. Many things had changed in that time; Charles was older and wearier, even if he did not look it. His soul, a soul that was as much Erik’s as it was his, was tired and withered. The string tied beneath his left ribs tugged painfully, but as the carriage had neared, he could feel it knotting itself back together.

People that loved each other would only part if one of them wished it. Charles had always been the one who, naively, thought that Heathcliff’s words had been beautiful. It was funny how he was the one to have caused the pain those words warned him about.

Charles had heard nothing from Erik, not that he had tried to contact him recently. Part of Charles held a fear that Erik had moved on. Unlike Charles, Erik had been in relationships with women before, and many more than one. What if Charles was just another one? One of his mistresses that he fleetingly loved because he abhorred his mad wife?

But Charles couldn’t bring himself to believe that, not when he _knew_ Erik. Erik had withheld things from Charles, yes, but the parts of himself that he did let Charles see, they were real. Erik had shown Charles that he loved him, even when he hadn’t told him everything. While Charles still loved Erik, he was sure that Erik still loved him.

 _‘He’s still calling my name, I can hear it,’_ Charles thought to himself, heart hammering as he hobbled out of the hotel with the aid of the walking stick Logan had made for him on his nineteenth birthday. 

The dirt roads leading up to Ironfield were impossible to traverse on his wheelchair, and Charles was resolved to get there on his own. Charles limped his way to hail a carriage from the front of the hotel, which soon dropped him off at the closest stop along the road to Ironfield. Charles paid them, before beginning the trek up to the grand house.

Charles had always enjoyed this walk, and remembered how he felt when he and Erik would walk it together in the light of dusk. Erik would sometimes tug him behind a stocky tree and press him up against its trunk, sealing Charles’s red lips with his own and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe.

Now, the walk was laborious, a little sweat building on Charles’s brow as he hobbled down the familiar road.

It was when he drew close enough to break through the veil of overlying trees that Charles stopped dead in his tracks, walking stick clattering to the ground.

Ironfield Hall, his home, was a ruin.

What had used to be battlements that stood tall and proud against the horizon were charred black and crumbled, revealing burnt exposed rafters that splintered into jagged pieces. Ironfield no longer had a roof, its walls now mere slabs of broken stone on the ground.

It looked like fire had razed Ironfield to the ground, and Charles suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Charles fumbled to pick up his discarded walking stick before hopping and dragging his maimed leg forwards and forwards, numb to the pain as he stared with wide eyes at the remains of the once-grand mansion.

Crows squawked around the caved-in roof, Charles pushing his way through the non-existent door, which had been reduced to black coal.

The inside was as bad as the exterior, if not worse. It looked like no furniture had been spared from the inferno, the wooden banisters of the staircase mere twigs on the ground. Charles wobbled forwards, heart growing more and more frantic as he realised that the estate, the estate where he had fallen in love and had his heart filled and broken, was a wasteland.

“Oh, God,” Charles choked out, falling into Erik’s downstairs study. It had also been touched by the fire, and was devoid of its books and souvenirs from abroad, his desk black and empty. It seemed like, apart from the fire, looters had ravaged the place bare.

_‘Where is Erik? Moira? Alex? Where is everyone? What happened? Oh God, I’m toolatetoolatetoolate.’_

“Who goes there?!” a sharp voice called out, Charles whirling around at the sound of the voice. Footsteps rushed forwards, before bursting into the study. The man who tore through the room skidded to a stop when he saw Charles, stumbling back with a double take that would have been comical in any other situation.

 _“Charles?!”_ Scott yelled, rubbing his eyes like he had seen a ghost. It was indeed Scott Summers, looking different but the same. While before he had always worn a coachman’s garb, he now donned a fine suit and spectacles. His hair was neatly styled, longer than it used to be – he no longer looked like a young coachman, but a wealthy lord. Like someone who finally married a wealthy woman like Emma Frost.

Charles was speechless and in shock, Scott recovering first and rushing towards him.

“Charles, is that really you?” Scott asked frantically, pulling at Charles’s cheeks, like he expected his hands to go right through him. When Charles yelped at the pain of having his cheeks pulled so harshly, Scott jumped, apologising profusely. “Charles, what are you- Why are you here? When did you return? We thought we would never see you again, we thought you had perished, we didn’t know…”

“Scott, what happened here?” Charles asked, hand holding his walking stick shaking desperately. “Scott, where is Erik? Is he… He can’t be…”

Charles’s mind reeled back to the night he had saved Erik from being consumed by flames in his bed. Erik had left that incident unscathed, healthy, safe and whole, but _this_ time… If this time Erik had died in a fire, when Charles had left him…

Charles felt sick, and swayed on his feet.

Scott saw him begin to topple over, quickly rushing and catching the former tutor, snagging his arm before he fell to the ground.

“Charles! What happened… _oh_ , your leg,” Scott said, noticing the walking stick and the way Charles didn’t put any weight on his left leg. “Never mind. Here, let’s go to another room. The drawing room is one of the only rooms that is still functional. Let’s sit there, and I will explain what happened.”

Charles weakly nodded, letting Scott help him down familiar yet broken halls to the drawing room he and Erik had shared many chess games together. When Scott led him through the doors, he could hear the clink of their glasses, the scrape of wood against wood as someone moved a chess piece, an occasional laugh, an impassioned voice as they argued, the soft press of Erik’s lips against his.

Scott lowered Charles into his old seat, which appeared to have remained in the same spot beside the chess set. There was no chess set in sight, though – it had been taken by looters some time ago as well.

Scott was about to take the seat opposite Charles – _Erik’s seat_ – but he must have seen the pain cross Charles’s face, and stopped part way. Scott coughed, standing up to lean against a shelf instead.

“Where do you want me to start?” Scott asked, Charles licking his lips. He wanted to know if Erik was alive, but he was afraid to ask the question. If he asked, and Scott said that he had died…

“The beginning. From when I left,” Charles said, voice shaking. Scott nodded, rubbing his face and taking in a deep breath.

“We found out that you had left when we heard Erik scream out your name. He had gone to your rooms at around ten that morning, wanting to talk to you again, to try and explain himself. He had knocked on your door for a long time, until he felt like something was truly wrong, and that you weren’t just ignoring him. He burst down the door, and that was it. You were gone. He had screamed your name over and over, we could hear it from the other side of the mansion.”

_‘He had been calling for me, and I had heard him.’_

“Erik… Erik was beside himself, of course,” Scott said, Charles growing pale. “He ordered us to look for you, and took off on his horse himself – but by then, you were long gone. He locked himself in your chambers then, for two weeks straight. Moira had to bring him all his meals, and even then, he seemed to have no appetite. He began to eat more when we all… well, at that point, we weren’t afraid of losing our jobs anymore.”

“He recovered physically after that, and on the outside, he was the same Mr Lehnsherr. Maybe more bitter and snappy, but his mood had always been changeable. Inside… inside he wasn’t the same. We all know why you left, Charles. The master did, too. Before you ask, no, he never blamed you for leaving. He knew he had done you wrong, and he believed that he was paying for his mistake. He never stopped loving you or waiting for you, though. Moira caught him praying, every night – and you know that the master was no Christian.”

 _‘He never stopped loving you,’_ Charles repeated, stomach twisting. Why does that make it sound like he…

“It was about a month after that. His wife… Creed’s sister, she escaped one night and took a candle from a sleeping Anna-Marie. She set fire to all the curtains, to the beds, to everything. She burnt Ironfield Hall down, Charles, but before it was completely destroyed she climbed onto the tallest battlement and threw herself off it.”

Charles gasped, somehow able to picture it clearly. The ghost – Clara Creed – with her long blonde hair and white night dress, bare footed and wild. He could see her leap through the air, thinking that she was a dove, and falling until she hit the hard stone below. She would have died instantly.

Scott paused, letting Charles stomach the news, only continuing when Charles nodded slowly.

“Moira and the other girls escaped in time, but…” Scott’s voice grew thick then, and Charles knew what was about to come. “Peter was trapped in his room, terrified. Alex and the master looked for him, and the master found him and got him out. But Alex… Alex became trapped when the rafters collapsed. He… my brother. He passed that night,” Scott coughed, overcome with emotion. “We held the funeral for him the week after.”

“I’m so sorry, Scott,” Charles said, voice shaking as he closed his eyes. Apart from Moira, Alex was the person Charles was closest with amongst the staff. Alex, the first person he had met when he arrived at Ironfield Hall. Alex, who had smiled at him and made him feel welcome, who had told him that _‘so you love a man? What is so wrong with that? Someone people never love at all in their life, and is that not worse?’_

“Thank you. It was six months ago now, Charles,” Scott said, trying to give Charles a reassuring, thankful smile. “We have begun to heal. Alex… Alex considered you a close friend. Everyone did. After you left, we all missed you, and talked about you often. We all prayed for you to be safe, but we never knew where you had gone, even when Erik had hired investigators. It was like Charles Xavier had vanished off the face of the Earth. Where did you go, Charles?”

“Past the Moors, to a small parish there. I… I was taken in by the inhabitants at Eden House,” Charles said softly. “Two of them came here with me today.”

“We’d all be glad to know that you weren’t alone,” Scott said, stepping forward now to gently place his hand on Charles’s shoulder.

Charles had to ask the question now, unable to take it any longer.

“Scott, is he alive?” Charles asked, the man blinking.

“He? Oh. The master. Yes, Charles. Yes, he’s alive. I should have told you that from the start, I’m sorry,” Scott said quickly, Charles releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding, letting out a choked laugh.

“Oh, thank God,” Charles shook, folding over on himself, dropping his head into his hands and wiping his wet eyes before turning to Scott again. “Where is he then, Scott? I came back for him. I… I heard him calling for me.”

“When Ironfield burned down, we could no longer live here. He relocated to his second, smaller residence a little further into the country. It is called Genosha Manor,” Scott explained, and Charles’s legs, even maimed as one was, itched to run there immediately.

“It is small, and didn’t need many people to maintain it. Only Moira and Lorna went with him and Peter. Moira has written to me recently, though, and it appears that the master has sent Peter to school. Now, only Moira is there to tend to him. Angel found a new situation, and Anna-Marie… Anna felt guilty about not being able to stop Clara, and couldn’t bear to work for the master any more. She found new work a few shires over, for a family that lives at a place called Westchester.”

Scott jumped when Charles let out a shocked, incredulous laugh. _Coincidence, or fate?_

“How far is it to Genosha?” Charles asked, Scott beginning to smile now.

“Only a few hours by carriage. If you leave now, you can get there in the afternoon,” Scott said, Charles nodding, gripping his walking stick tightly with newfound determination.

“Thank you, Scott. For everything,” Charles said, Scott nodding and helping Charles to stand.

“I have to tell you though, Charles. The master, he is not the same man. When he went to save Peter from the fire, he did not come out unscathed,” Scott said, and Charles just shook his head, patting Scott’s arm.

“Neither am I. Neither of us are the same, now – and maybe, that’s why we will be fine this time.”

***

Scott did not accompany Charles to Genosha, since he had to return to his and Emma’s own home. Emma was currently with child, and Charles did not want to take him away from her side during such a critical time. He had only been at Ironfield to try and salvage what the looters missed, but found that he was too late. Scott had been too kind, still offering to escort Charles to Genosha when he saw how poorly his leg was. Scott only gave in when he met Jean and Ororo when he dropped Charles off at the hotel. Charles doubted that Scott would have left him in anyone else’s hands.

Charles told Jean and Ororo about what had happened, and they had held Charles’s hands the entire coach ride. When they arrived at Genosha Manor, within the boundaries of the afternoon as Scott had said, Charles was suddenly frozen in fear as he took in the unfamiliar building.

It was no Ironfield Hall, and was a simpler country house, though Charles knew that it would have costed a hefty price because of the sprawling lands that came with it. The manor itself, however, was small compared to the extravagant Ironfield.

The manor was made of a warm-toned stone, in contrast to the dark greys of Ironfield. Rustic glass windows spanned the walls covered with climbing ivy. The manor was not imposing compared to Ironfield, and in fact looked inviting and warm from the orange glow the early sunset was beginning to cast upon it.

Charles breathed in and out with every step Jean took as she wheeled him across the gravel walk way to the manor.

Ororo knocked on the door, before stepping to stand beside Charles, clutching his hand.

Charles’s breath quickened when he heard footsteps reach the door, the sound of a lock unlatching loud in Charles’s ears. The door soon swung open inwardly, revealing Moira, who was dressed in a dark black dress. Her hands froze mid-motion, the door only half open as she stared at Charles, like he was a phantom.

“Hello, Moira,” Charles said, Moira’s eyes immediately filling with tears as she opened the door fully, cupping Charles’s face with her hands and letting out a sob.

Moira opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by an achingly familiar, cold and brusque voice.

“MacTaggert! Send whoever they are away! I don’t want to be disturbed!”

“Erik,” Charles whispered, Moira letting out a quiet laugh, wiping her eyes.

“Charles, you’ve come back,” Moira said, taking all of him in. “I knew you were alive. Others thought that you maybe… But no, no. That doesn’t matter anymore. You’re here now.”

“Yes,” Charles said, Moira looking away from him then, finally noticing that he was not alone. “Moira, these are two of the people that cared for me while I was away. They are like sisters to me. This is Ororo, and behind me is Jean. And this is Mrs Moira MacTaggert, my dearest friend.”

Moira beamed, eyes a little wet again, and she smoothly curtseyed at Ororo and Jean.

“Charles’s family is considered my family,” Moira said, smiling at them warmly. “Come in. Charles, as you probably heard, Mr Lehnsherr is…”

“In one of his moods, like always?” Charles supplied, Moira letting out a laugh, a wondrous sound, like she still couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“Yes, exactly. And I suspect, like always, you have a remedy to temper such a mood?” Moira said, eyes twinkling.

Charles nodded, mouth curving upwards.

“Of course, Moira. Now, where is Erik?”

***

Erik sat outside beneath a shaded tree with Magneto lying at his feet. He couldn’t see what the tree looked like, and didn’t know whether its leaves were whole and green or yellow and sparse. He could hear the wind run its threads through its branches, though, and the rustling was loud.

Whole and green then, he pictured in his mind’s eye.

It had been months since Charles had left; almost a year, now. Erik didn’t know exactly how long it had been, because the loss was still as raw as it was that first day. Erik could still feel the gaping hole in his chest when he had kicked down Charles’s locked door and seen the wide-open window and billowing curtains. The room had been so cold and so empty, so devoid of everything that was bright.

It was also hard to count the days when every day was cast in darkness. After his wife had burnt down Ironfield, Erik had gone blind. He no longer witnessed sunrises and sunsets, and simply spent his days sitting in the library or outside under this tree that he had never seen before.

Erik did not know why he spent so much time in a library full of books he could not see. Maybe it was because the room smelled like Charles, like ink and parchment, or books and dreams. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, his vision not changing at all, he could imagine that Charles was sitting next to him.

But Charles was not. If Charles was here, he would have let Erik rest his head on his thighs, gently brushing a hand across Erik’s eyelids, comforting his broken eyes. If he were here, he would clear his throat gently and read Erik passages from Brontë, or poems by Donne. He would read about Heathcliff, and Erik would have made a sarcastic comment about it. About how Heathcliff pined, and how Catherine left him.

Erik had never liked Heathcliff, but he could maybe understand him a bit more now.

Erik felt the breeze change, growing chilly. It would be around now that Moira would come to fetch him for supper, even though he was not hungry. She would offer him her arm, to guide him through thicket and the shrubbery, and he would snap at her for belittling him. She wouldn’t say anything, but would make sure her footsteps were loud enough so Erik could follow.

So, Erik sat there beneath a tree that he could not see, waiting for a person that he wished was someone else.

***

Charles saw Erik from afar, and his breath caught in his throat. Scott and Moira had told him – _warned_ him – that he was not the same man that Charles remembered. That he was blind and hurting, much like Charles was.

But, when Charles saw him, he did not see a broken man. No, Erik was still beautiful to him, in every way. His hair was overgrown, falling over his eyes that could not see any way, and his beard was thick and messy. He did not bother wearing a neck tie these days, frustrated that it was difficult to tie without eyes, and he apparently always wore the same brown pants and the same white shirt. What did it matter, now that he couldn’t see it? What did it matter, when Moira was the only person to ever see Mr Lehnsherr, the fallen former master of Ironfield Hall?

Erik may have looked different, but the way he made Charles’s heart quicken and squeeze was very much the same. Charles still loved him, that had not changed.

Jean wheeled him as close as she could take the wheelchair, the contraption unable to weave between the bushes and thicket. Charles thanked her softly, and she gave Charles a smile, before retreating with his chair back into the manor with Moira and Ororo.

Charles gripped his walking stick, and began stumbling back to the man that he still loved, even when they were worlds apart. Even when the string between their left ribs was stretched, making their hearts bleed, it had not snapped.

No, it was still there, drawing the two closer and closer together, until Charles was standing before him.

Magneto smelled Charles before he saw him, and immediately recognised the man. Magneto rose to his feet immediately, letting out a happy bark, racing over. Charles smiled quietly, bending down to rub the dog’s head, the creature barking again.

Erik’s head snapped towards the noise, hearing his companion bark and the snapping of twigs under a human’s feet.

“Magneto, down. It’s just Moira, Christ,” Erik snapped, his dog’s barking too loud. Magneto listened to his master, but licked Charles’s hand once more, trotting with glee back to Erik’s side, sitting there with his tail wagging while looking at Charles.

Charles smiled a little at Erik’s snappish tone, glad that the man had not lost all of his fire and passion. Charles just hoped that, somewhere buried under all of that pain and hurt, there was still a man that could smile in that singular way of his that showed too many teeth.

Charles grew closer, and Erik’s unseeing pale eyes looked in his general direction. While his eyesight was no longer with him, his other senses had heightened. He heard the crunching of twigs and fallen leaves, but the steps were too heavy, the rhythm unlike Moira whom he heard every day. There was no swish of a skirt against the ground, and Erik tensed his muscles at the intruder.

“Who’s there?” Erik asked, Charles’s heart fluttering. When he didn’t answer, Erik’s eyes narrowed, the man shifting where he sat. “Who is that?”

Charles sucked in a breath, taking in the man in front of him, before finally speaking.

“Magneto knows me, Sir.”

Erik’s hand immediately flew out and grabbed at the phantom-like being, unseeing eyes widening. Erik’s hand slapped Charles’s wrist, making the man laugh a little, before reaching out to meet Erik’s touch half-way. Erik’s hands sought Charles’s, wrapping around his palm and his digits, running his fingers through them with an unmistakeable tremor.

“I know this hand,” Erik breathed out, pulling at Charles’s hand until it was close enough for him to press his mouth against, breath shuddering against Charles’s skin.

“I would hope so, _Herr Lehnsherr_. _”_

Erik let out a choked noise, kissing the hand in his before dropping his forehead to it, breathing heavily.

“Charles,” Erik whispered, the owner of the name letting out a sob-like laugh, falling to his knees, his legs unable to keep him upright any longer. Charles let his walking stick fall to the floor, using his free hand now to cup Erik’s cheek, feeling the unfamiliar beard beneath his fingers. Erik’s cheeks were wet.

“I am come back to you, Erik,” Charles murmured, craning his neck upwards to press his mouth against Erik’s. The kiss was not perfect, not in the slightest; Erik’s lips were shaking, and Charles couldn’t breathe. But, it was a kiss that was real, as real as it could be.

“Are you really here, Charles?” Erik demanded to know, letting go of Charles’s hand to grip his face, thumb smoothing over the familiar slope of his cheeks, nose, lips. These were Charles’s features, real and warm under his fingers. “I’ve imagined you like this so many times, but…”

“I am here, Erik. I’ve come back to you,” Charles assured him, kissing him again, and Erik finally kissed him back after loosing a wrecked sob.

“I thought I lost you,” Erik choked against his Charles’s mouth, Charles letting out a noise from the back of his throat. Charles shook his head, their noses bumping.

“Never, Erik,” Charles said, pressing his forehead against Erik’s. “I heard you calling for me. You never lost me. I’m here, and I’m not going to leave.”

Erik was too overcome with emotion to speak, his body, heart and soul filled to the brim with relief, thankfulness, disbelief, love, passion, _everything_.

So, Charles just kissed him again and again, before pulling back only a touch, to whisper;

“And don’t forget, my love – you still owe me wages.”

Erik laughed, for the first time in a long time.

And, for the first time in a new forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter is a short little epilogue just to wrap things up :)


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, finally at the end! This is a short one, just to round the story off :)  
> Thanks so much for reading!

Logan stood outside the estate, whistling a little at its sheer scale. It was large, but considering Chuck had been given 20,000 pounds, he had expected something larger. That was just like Chuck, though. He had been content in their Eden House, cramped and simple as it was.

Chuck was always someone who valued the people around him, rather than walls and ceilings and windows. Seeing the estate before him, grand but also warm and exactly like Chuck, Logan smiled. It has been ten years since he’d last seen the blue-eyed man and his sisters, and it was comforting to know that some things still remained the same. 

From where he stood outside, Logan could hear the sound of children laughing, a chorus of voices rising up through the gaps in the door. There were too many voices to count, but that was understandable for a school.

Logan had thought that he would have had more trouble tracking down Charles Xavier, but the man had made it ridiculously easy.

After killing Stryker, Logan had gone to the Americas, where he lived a hard and fast life. It had been fun, for a while, but part of him always longed to go back to the days where it was just him, his sisters and Chuck. Ten years had passed, and it was time to come back home.

When his ship had docked, he had gone by horseback from the port city to the shire Chuck’s lover's Ironfield Hall was in. He was surprised to find that the place had become a school and had nearly turned back, until he saw the plaque out the front.

_Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters_

Logan had grinned. Chuck had not been idle for the past decade, starting up a school. He had heard from the owner of a local inn that the school was built two years ago on the land owned by a Mr Lehnsherr. Apparently, the original estate had been burned down in a tragic accident and left abandoned for years.

Ironfield had always been a bit of an enigma before it had been burned to the ground; people knew that the master of the grand old house was a Mr Lehnsherr, and that he was an unsociable and cold man, though rich and powerful. No one knew much about his family, except that his parents had passed when he was barely a man. It had only been after the fire broke out that it was discovered that Mr Lehnsherr had a wife, who perished in the blaze. Most felt pity for the man, losing a wife and his home in one fell swoop. Others, who had heard the rumours that the woman had been mad and vicious, thought him blessed instead. Others did not believe in rumour and hearsay, just knowing that Mr Lehnsherr was a reclusive and obscure man, one that was more myth than tangible reality.

There had been some other rumours that circulated just months before the fire, about how Mr Lehnsherr had kept a lover who ran away - a _man_. Someone spread the rumour that the master of Ironfield was not only an adulterer, but a sodomite. But not many people paid heed to the rumour; Mrs Emma Summers, née Frost, had heard of the rumours and laughed them silly - her dear friend, Mr Lehnsherr, had only ever loved true once in his life. She told everyone that the man that left had been under Mr Lehnsherr's employment - a simple tutor, who sought employment elsewhere when his pupil was sent to school. 

People forgot about the rumours after a short while, and Ironfield was left to weather and waste away as a cold and grey ruin. It was left this way for many years, and some people wondered if Mr Lehnsherr would ever return, but the years continued to pass and pass, and people eventually forgot about that too.

But then, a wealthy, handsome, kind and gentle man – a teacher – had come and rebuilt the estate, brick by brick, stone by stone, and had turned it into a school. While the school was named to take in ‘gifted youngsters’, everyone in the area knew that it was truly a school for orphans and underprivileged children. The school asked for no fees, and one would think that such a school would be horrible and mistreat its children, starving them because of a lack of funds. But if you ever saw a child from that school, they would say that they wished they could live there with their Professor X forever. Sometimes, they spoke of a quietly kind older gentleman that was Mr Xavier's dear old friend - one that was always by his side to help him when his leg ached during poor weather, and help push his chair when he was feeling ill. They just called him Mr L, like how they called the headmaster of the school 'Professor X'.

Chuck had always wanted to create a school to give children a chance to build a better life for themselves. Now, his dream had become a reality.

And all was peaceful.

Logan knocked on the school's front door, and was greeted by an older woman with brown hair and a kind and pretty face. A young man that looked to be about eighteen distracted the woman for a moment as he walked behind her. His pale blonde hair was messy, and his suit untidy and far too relaxed. The woman sighed at the young man that she called ‘Peter’ fondly, briefly chastising him for his appearance, before turning back to Logan, confusion on her features.

“Hello, Sir. Are you here to enrol a student?” the woman asked, and Logan snorted at the silly notion. The woman crinkled her nose at his unmannered response, but didn’t say anything, just looking at him warily.

“I’m here to see Chuck,” Logan said simply, the woman looking even more confused now, making Logan grin widely. “My sisters used to call him Professor X, but I suppose everyone calls him that now.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and things seemed to click in her mind.

“You’re Logan. I mean, Mr Howlett,” she said simply, Logan nodding.

“You got it. Now would you let me in? I’m already ten years late.”

“I should have known it was you. He did say you were a rough kind of character,” Moira said, Logan chuckling at the words, the woman relaxing once she discovered the identity of the sudden visitor.

Logan followed Moira down warmly-lit hallways before stopping by a set of double doors. Logan could hear two voices inside, both male, and he licked his lips.

He didn’t wait for Moira to knock nor announce his presence, pushing the doors open with a loud bang, the two men inside the room turning to the sound.

Chuck sat there behind a desk, all blue eyes and brown hair, and another man sat atop it. Chuck’s hands were resting on the man’s thighs, whose own hands were reaching down to caress Chuck’s face. The professor’s eyes widened and his red lips opened to a shocked ‘o’, while the other man – who had to be the one and only Mr Erik Lehnsherr – turned with narrowed eyes that drifted aimlessly, unseeing but somehow still sharp and piercing.

“Logan,” Charles called out, the gruff man taking two long strides over to the professor’s desk, resting his hands on the edge to look at Charles.

Lehnsherr seemed to recognise Logan’s name, and his mouth pulled back to reveal two white rows with too many teeth, challenging. Logan grinned right back, feeling like he was exactly where he was meant to be.


End file.
